


The Crabtree Strain

by GoodMorningMoon



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Also go read Alone in Our Secret, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anyway please enjoy and take care of yourselves and your neighbours, Caretaking, Edwardian Period, Every time I chose a date I would look up what weather happened in Toronto that day, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, I can't do things by half measures, I hope, I pored over anatomy references available at the time, Isolation, Medical, Parts of it are funny, Quarantine, Recovery, Sickfic, Surgery, Toronto, Whump, You would not believe how meticulously I researched this thing, and William Osler's Principles and Practices of Medicine, concussion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 61,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23136322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodMorningMoon/pseuds/GoodMorningMoon
Summary: Written in early 2019. Julia and William are quarantined in their house for ten days with a gravely ill Crabtree, who has been laid low by the same infectious disease that's killed one person and left at least six more near death in hospital. William's not his usual self, and Julia must look after him as well while Station House 4 searches for the source of a possible cure for George.
Relationships: George Crabtree & Julia Ogden, George Crabtree & William Murdoch, William Murdoch/Julia Ogden
Comments: 29
Kudos: 40





	1. Prologue: Afternoon, August 30, 1906, Toronto

**Author's Note:**

> You've all read "Alone in Our Secret" by now, right? And you're subscribed so you'll know when there's more? Good. AnnetheCatDetective has a gift.
> 
> I wrote this in early 2019. I started it in the middle of Season 12, and there are so many spoilers about so many episodes up to then, including the estrangement between the Brackenreids. When I was writing it I never would have imagined anything like what's happening now in 2020. It's a lot to take in. This story is on a much smaller scale: just beloved characters looking after each other in a time of great stress. 
> 
> I've been writing h/c fanfic for, uh, a very long time, but this is the first story I ever shared online. (I think MM having such a tiny, devoted fandom really helped me take the plunge.) I decided to post it here on AO3 in March of 2020 because, well, you know why. As always, feedback is so welcome I might pop. I hope you're all safe and healthy and provisioned, now and always. Thanks for reading.

"Dinner? Tonight? Why thank you, sir, that would be lovely," said George Crabtree. "Thank you, yes, I'd be honoured to accept the invitation. Very kind of you. Seven o'clock, then? All right, I will see you and Doctor Ogden at your home at seven." George hung up the phone and grinned.

It had been some time since he had been invited to the Murdoch-Ogden residence as the couple's first dinner guest in their brand new home, and he was always glad for the opportunity to spend time of a purely social nature with them. He was deeply fond of both Detective Murdoch, his cherished mentor, and Doctor Ogden, a remarkable woman whose humour, intellect, and fire never ceased to awe him. An evening with two of the people he admired most in the world would be a mighty improvement on his unpleasant day.

It had been a bad afternoon. The calls started coming in just after 4:00pm: a belligerent, bloodied young man, wearing only a half-opened shirt, trousers, and socks despite the chill in the air, had attacked half a dozen people at random on Cherry Street, near the Port Lands. The hooligan had stabbed at least three of them with a dinner fork, of all things, and clawed wildly at the others, scratching their hands and faces, leaving them stunned and distraught.

Constables Crabtree and Higgins—begging his pardon, Higgins- _Newsome_ —had been on patrol nearby, and were the first of the Constabulary to arrive on the scene. They caught up quickly with the offender, simply following the trail of fresh drops of blood. A struggle had ensued, and the miscreant had managed to drive the fork into George's upper arm before the two constables plus four more reinforcements could subdue him and stuff him in the wagon to the lockup. George was most irritated at having to pull a piece of evidence out of his own person—it was quite painful!—and his ride back to Station House No. 4 was an uncomfortable one. Back at his locker, George retrieved his civilian clothes, and Henry sent him to seek out the attentions of Miss Hart in the morgue to irrigate and bandage the wound. Well, the four small wounds. That done, he resolved to put the incident—nay, work itself!—behind him. He was determined to enjoy himself this evening.

On his way to dinner, he stopped at a florist to pick up a bouquet for his hosts. Stepping back onto the street, he spotted a tailor shop, and remembered with chagrin that he had left the paper bag with his punctured police tunic and union suit on the counter in the morgue. He had wanted to drop them off for repair. Alas; he would collect them in the morning.

**Evening, August 30**

George stood at his friends' front door and reflected, not for the first time nor for the last, on how very _strange_ their house was. He didn't dislike it, exactly; it was just so _odd._ The longer the couple lived there, the more he realized how much it suited them. Their deep love for each other and their respective eccentricities were apparent to anyone who met them, and time spent with either or both of them only revealed their tremendous mutual affection and their amiable, unapologetic peculiarity more. It was only fitting that they live in such an unusual abode.

So many features of the home were idiosyncratic to its occupants. A single storey? Neither was ever too far away to hear the other. No wall between the sitting room and dining room? Never a barrier to their conversation and companionship. A hidden sofa? Perfect for the inventor of so many useful gadgets, and also most suitable for a pair who were as obviously smitten with each other as they.

Now, the _potato-cooking room_ —that one was largely due to George and a particular flight his fancy had taken some years ago. He would likely never get over being thrilled that the detective, who so often brushed off George's fantastical imaginings, had brought one of them to fruition, and even built it into his own home! George grinned with anticipation of such agreeable company (and perhaps even another piping hot potato), and knocked on the door.

"George. How wonderful to see you! You're looking most dapper in your suit," said his hostess as she greeted him, radiant as ever, and gave him one of her thousand-watt smiles.

"Doctor Ogden," he answered her warmly, tipping his hat, and presented her with the flowers. "You look lovely, and the house smells quite wonderful."

"Oh come now, George, this is our home. It's Julia." She gave him a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek, and gestured him inside, taking his hat as well and laying it on the table next to the door. "Thank you, these are beautiful. I'll get a vase for them." _She smells as lovely as she looks_ , George thought fleetingly, then, not for the first time: _Her husband is a very lucky man._

Said husband sailed around a corner to greet their friend as well. "What have you, George?" he asked congenially, in a decade-old habit. No, more than a decade. The phrase was their "hello."

The detective was in a fine mood, having taken the day off to tinker in the workshop that he had been setting up in the second bedroom. His enthusiasm about organizing it had piqued George's curiosity, and the constable was eager to see it. George had great regard for the detective's ingenuity, and had long been fascinated by the man's mind. What better way to see its inner workings than by inspecting his workspace?

"I'm very glad to be here. Thank you so much for inviting me. I have something for you as well," he said, reaching into the pocket of his jacket to hand the detective a potato. All three burst out laughing. It was going to be a very pleasant evening.

Julia gestured George toward one of the armchairs in the sitting room, and then she and William both adjourned to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on dinner. George was impressed that the design of the house permitted him to converse with them while they worked. "Sir, I must say I'm surprised to see you engaged in the—shall we say, _domestic_ duties of the household," he began.

Julia's eyes flashed, and William knew enough to hold his tongue. "Well, George," said Julia, "William has been much more engaged in such domestic duties since we discussed the relationship between a person's gender and the relative value placed on their work in the kitchen."

"Is that right, then," said George. "How do you mean?"

William glanced at Julia, and she smiled. "Julia pointed out that professional chefs are all men and are paid handsomely for their labour, while women who work as kitchen maids are paid a relative pittance, and those who cook for their own families are expected to do all the work with no compensation at all." George could practically hear the words in Julia's voice. "We agreed that since we are equals, we will share the household tasks equitably," William continued, and Julia nodded in approval. "Also, I find that I enjoy cooking, and I've learned quite a bit. Some of what I've cooked has turned out to be quite palatable! With regard to the kitchen, Julia's skills…" He paused, and his expression turned mischievous. "Well, shall we say, Julia's _considerable_ skills lie elsewhere."

"William!" she exclaimed, and swatted him with a potholder. George nearly snorted.

"Well then, Julia"—it still felt strange to use her first name, and he wasn't sure he would ever be able to break the habit of calling William Murdoch "sir"—"I suppose you are fortunate in a way. In my experience, the worse you appear at doing something, the less likely you are to be asked to do it. So perhaps in future this current _equitable_ arrangement may shift even further in your favour."

She snickered, and glanced at William in amusement; he was studiously attending to the soup pot on the stove, with his mouth pursed into a smirk as well. "We'll see about that," he muttered.

"George, would you like some wine?" Julia asked, gesturing to a bottle of burgundy on the counter.

"Why thank you, I should like that very much."

The table was set and the meal needed a bit more time, so William and Julia adjourned to the sitting room to join their guest. William asked about goings-on that day at the station house, and so George reported briefly on the misadventure on Cherry Street with the fork-wielding hooligan. The mention of a fork used as a weapon prompted William and Julia to reminisce about the murder of Tobias Pincher several years before, impaled by a pitchfork in the stables of the Imperial Hotel. George thought briefly about mentioning his own injury of the day, but the conversation had moved on and he decided against it, not wishing to dwell on unpleasantness during such a convivial get-together. Really, it was nothing. Irritating more than anything else.

Dinner was a vegetable soup followed by beef bourguignon, with an asparagus salad and some jellies and fresh buns on the side. Despite the warm, engaging banter of his friends, George found himself increasingly out of sorts as the evening progressed. The food was delicious, but he had little appetite, and after a while he could only poke at the contents of his plate. His second glass of wine was nearly untouched. His arm throbbed painfully where the fork had impaled him, and he was developing a headache as well. And was he the only one to notice how very cold the room had become? William had just started to describe his idea for a laundry-drying cabinet when Julia noticed George shiver, and saw the fine sheen of perspiration across his reddening face.

Julia held up a hand to stop William, and stared intently at their guest. "George? Are you all right?"

George squeezed his eyes shut before he replied. He was loath to spoil such an agreeable gathering, but he most certainly could not answer honestly in the affirmative. "I… I don't know that I am. I'm finding it very chilly, and I've had quite the headache come on even since we sat down."

"Goodness, that won't do at all," said Julia. "Here, let me take a look at you. You look quite feverish." She stood up from her chair and walked over toward him. "Any other symptoms? She glanced at his plate and noticed it still mostly full. "Loss of appetite, I see. Any muscle aches?"

"Now that you mention it, I am awfully sore. And—"

He broke off suddenly, and began staring off into the middle distance. William and Julia waited for him to finish his sentence, but he had become quite oblivious to them. Julia heard a rustling under the table and peered underneath to see his legs moving, as if he were riding a bicycle. "George? George!" He smacked his lips, and did not respond. Distressed, Julia leapt to her feet.

"William!" she exclaimed. "My God, William, he's having a seizure. Start timing it, and help me get him onto the floor!" William, wide-eyed, took out his pocket watch and noted the time as Julia moved to George's side and pulled him toward herself. She nodded at William, and he dashed to the other side of George's chair, sliding it out from under him as Julia eased him down to the tile. She noted with some alarm that he was radiating heat.

William was at a loss. He had not witnessed a seizure since he was a young teenager, when one of his classmates had fallen to the floor shaking during a science experiment in the school's laboratory. Two teachers had argued about the correct position for the boy and whether to place anything in his mouth to prevent him from choking on his own tongue. William's classmate had eventually come to, very groggy and disoriented, with several teeth broken by the dip pen that had been shoved between them. It had taken him some months to recover his faculties fully, and William had found the whole experience quite unnerving. He flashed back to it as he stared helplessly at his friend. "George? George. Are you with us? George! Julia, what do we do?"

"Have I never explained this to you before? Oh dear. We place him on his side, make sure his airway is clear, and wait until the seizure releases him. Then we get him to the hospital." William nodded, and helped his wife roll George over halfway. _Julia, you are splendid._

William crouched on the floor next to George, listening to his own heartbeat roar in his ears as he stared back and forth between his watch and his friend. The watch read exactly two minutes, forty-seven seconds when George's legs stopped moving, and William saw him come back into himself.

Julia had a small light at the ready, and shone it into George's eyes, one at a time. George recoiled in confusion, looking for all the world like a terrified child. "Sir? Where am I? Doctor Ogden? What happened? Why are we all on the floor?"

Julia lifted George's wrist to check his pulse. Her eyes widened as her hand made contact with his skin: he was burning up. _Yes, hospital now_ , she thought.

William exhaled with relief that George was awake, but the feeling was short-lived. Julia's tone was professional but her pitch was much higher than usual. William recognized the effort she was making to conceal her panic. "You've had a seizure, George. You're very flushed and you've a high fever, which is likely what caused it. Come lie down while I examine you and then we'll get you to the hospital."

"Oh, come now, Doctor Ogden, I'm just feeling a little under the weather. I'm sure I'm just fighting something off, I've certainly never had anything even like a seizure. Surely it couldn't have been as bad as all that…"

"George. First, in this house I am Julia and William is William. Second, you most certainly _did_ have a seizure, you frightened the life out of William, and"—she reached out and placed a cool palm on his sweaty forehead—"you are burning up. This is quite serious. Please let me take care of you."

George shook his head to clear it, to no avail. The room spun around him and his shivering became uncontrollable. "All right, that's enough," William announced, a familiar ring of authority in his voice. "George, you are ill, and you are going to lie down now, and you will submit to the doctor's examination, and we will take you to Toronto General, and that is the final word on the matter."

William moved to George's side, reached an arm around him, and supported him to his feet. "I…" George began, and stiffened. All at once the irritation he had felt before the seizure came surging back, and condensed and magnified itself into a roiling ball of fury in his abdomen. Any semblance of awareness left him as the fury suddenly exploded into an overwhelming rush of rage. He cocked his fist and punched his superior officer in the face with all his might. The detective fell backwards, too surprised to catch himself before his head hit the tile with a sickening thud.


	2. Late evening, August 30

Julia was open-mouthed, trying to understand what had just happened. William lay motionless at her feet. George swayed unsteadily, then threw off his jacket and tossed it to the floor. He tore at his collar to loosen his tie, popping off the top two buttons of his shirt. He tried to kick off his boots, but they were too tightly laced, and he nearly tipped over trying to remove one.

Julia jumped up and positioned herself defensively in front of her husband. Her mind raced: _What is_ wrong _with George?_ Words and phrases about seizures popped to mind—texts she had studied in medical school. Abstracts of journal articles. Charts and faces of past patients—all burst into her thoughts all at once, staunchly refusing to submit to her efforts to sort them into something comprehensible. She was nearly ready to scream in frustration when William came to on the floor.

William was shocked to find himself on his back, looking up at the ceiling. His cheek throbbed, and he lifted his hand to it. He squinted through the field of stars at his hand to see his own blood. _What on_ Earth _?_

Julia was leaning down toward him when George lurched toward her, intending to push her out of the way to get to his target again. Julia straightened up immediately and stepped into George's path. She leaned into him and swept her foot behind his knees, dropping him to the floor again as well. Suddenly it came to her: _the postictal phase. A particularly bad one._ She inhaled sharply. "William, hold him! I have to get a syringe!"

William's head swam. _Hold_ _George_? _Why?_ But William's fighting instincts took over as the wildness in George's eyes sparked raw fear in the pit of his stomach. In one motion he flipped George onto his stomach, pulled his hands up behind his back, straddled the man's backside to pin him down, and dropped his other hand to the back of George's neck. George continued to struggle violently while Julia nearly sprinted to the entry hall. Blood roared in William's ears, and he thought he might vomit.

George's grunts and yelps reverberated off the tile and through the open house, thoroughly unnerving Julia as she dug through her medical bag until the small bottle full of milky white liquid appeared. She retrieved her set of syringes as well, and ran back to George's side.

William continued to pin him down while trying to ignore his own throbbing head and ringing ears. Julia briefly steadied her nerves before unsheathing a needle. She inserted it into the bottle and drew up the liquid, then drew up her shoulders. "I need his upper arm, the deltoid muscle," she instructed William. He shifted his position slightly, moving his leg away from George's side. She wasted no time in jabbing the needle into George's arm and depressing the plunger. The resultant shriek was heartwrenching.

William looked expectantly at his wife, glancing at the syringe. "What did you give him?"

"Phenobarbital," she said breathlessly. William raised an eyebrow. She paused to inhale and recentre herself, then continued. "It's used on occasion for extremely agitated patients at the asylum. I was bringing it from the hospital to the lab at the morgue for analysis so I can better understand its potential applications to surgery."

"What does it do?" He grunted as George thrashed especially fiercely.

"It will calm him down so I can examine him. Some of the journal articles suggest it may help him recover from the seizure. It takes about five minutes to take effect. Are you all right to keep holding him until it does? I need to take some steps to bring his fever down."

William gritted his teeth and nodded, then wished he hadn't: the movement made him feel dizzy. Julia, too focused on George to notice, disappeared down the hall.

The next five minutes were some of the longest of William's life. George was a strong man, and his continued struggles against the necessary restraint made William's muscles start to twitch with exhaustion. A memory of himself atop a bucking colt during his stint as a ranch hand arose unbidden. _George the colt_. William smiled ruefully for a moment, hoping he would get the chance to laugh over the implausible image with his friend.

Julia sped past with a stack of oilcloths, and pressed the control to bring the hidden sofa out of the wall. William's amusement quickly receded back into fear and adrenaline as his ears continued to ring. "It's all right, George," he whispered. "You're going to be all right." He did not know if the words were true, but he needed to hear them spoken aloud. The younger man's friendship, trust, and loyalty meant a great deal to him. Julia disappeared again.

William was near the limits of his endurance when he finally felt George go limp underneath him. He lowered his head in relief, his vision blurring slightly, and he took a deep breath to try to recharge his screaming muscles even a little. He clambered off George and nearly collapsed back onto the floor himself just as Julia returned with a thermometer, a basin, and a damp cloth, then knelt by the semiconscious man to help roll him onto his side once again.

George opened his eyes halfway, and Julia could see that he was once again George. His expression was a distressing combination of confusion and terror, and his clothing was soaked with perspiration. "It's all right, George, it's all right. Shhh," Julia soothed him, and placed the basin next to his head, just in time for him to vomit red wine into it. William looked admiringly at his wife as George retched. "How did you know?" he asked.

"I learned a great deal about patient care when one of my less enlightened professors decided the female medical student should be given only the tasks of a nurse," she replied with a hint of bitterness. "Fortunately the matron intervened, as she did not wish to supervise me, and she was not impressed that her staff's duties were being usurped."

 _Clearly a story there,_ thought William wryly. _But not one for now._ "What… what's wrong with him?"

"He's very ill, at the risk of stating the obvious." She dabbed a damp cloth at his mouth. "Most likely some sort of infection. His fever is very high—it could be the cause of the seizure, or the infection itself could be as well. The postictal state afterwards triggered the aggression and violence. I've read about this happening among newly diagnosed epileptics who've yet to be treated with bromide or barbital. Fortunately he won't remember the seizure or its aftermath at all."

William nodded, and regretted it again as the din in his head resounded even more loudly. George was a sensitive sort who felt things keenly. It was a blessing that he would not remember—he would not cope well with the memory of striking his mentor. _But it will certainly stay with me_ , William thought grimly. The cut on his face had stopped bleeding, but it still stung, and his cheekbone ached. In fact, his whole head ached.

Julia glanced at him, and her face clouded with worry. "You're hurt. Let me look at you."

William tried to brush her off. "It's nothing. I'm quite all right."

She would not be dissuaded: she knew him too well. The small light materialized in her hand again and she turned all her attention to her husband. She looked at him appraisingly, and then shone the light in each eye, just as she had done for George. William recoiled and screwed his eyes shut, but not before Julia had seen what she needed to.

"I suppose you're all right for the moment—your pupils are both equal and reactive to light, and you are awake and coherent. But if you start to feel nauseated or faint, you must tell me immediately."

William looked at George, who looked as ill as he had ever seen anyone, and decided his own needs could wait. It was certainly not the first time he had been knocked senseless. He would recover. He would tell Julia about the nausea later, when George was out of crisis. He turned the focus back to their friend. "I'm fine, Julia. He's not an epileptic, is he? He'll be all right?"

"Epilepsy is highly unlikely. It's not associated with fever. But without knowing what's wrong, I can't offer a prognosis. His condition has deteriorated rapidly," said Julia. "The only times I've felt fevers this high were in children, who have a much higher tolerance for such elevated temperatures. It's highly likely than that the fever caused the seizure. If it goes any higher it could permanently damage his kidneys, his liver, his brain."

As if on cue, George's last link to consciousness slipped away. William watched his eyes drift closed. He clutched George's forearm and squeezed it, to no avail. "Straight to the hospital, then."

Julia felt George's forehead again, and touched his neck to check his pulse. She considered the available options briefly, and then shook her head as she set about unbuttoning George's torn shirt the rest of the way. "No. Not right now. There's nothing they can do for him there that we can't do for him here, and he's gotten so ill so fast I fear he might not survive the trip." William swallowed, hard. "We need to get this fever down as quickly as possible. Let's get him into the tub."

William followed her lead in disrobing George, sitting him up gently to get his shirt off, then lowering him again so Julia could pull off his trousers and socks. "What about…?" he began, gesturing to George's union suit.

"We'll leave it on him for now. It will help cool him off a bit more once he's out of the tub." William nodded, once again grateful that his wife—his _partner_ , in every sense—was so cool and collected and _knowledgeable_ in this sort of crisis. William could keep a cool head, but medicine was not his forte, and he himself was not feeling particularly well after George's blow.

The two worked together to carry the ailing constable to the washroom, and William could finally see where Julia had gone while he had been restraining George: the bathtub was filling with tepid water. William, still enervated from the struggle, was dismayed to need considerable help from Julia to help lift the younger man; a final boost from her got him all the way in with a minimum of splashing.

"I need to get his temperature," said Julia, and handed William a washcloth. "You ought to attend to that cheek." He took the cloth, and nearly stumbled to the sink near the water closet. A wave of nausea washed over him as he dampened the cloth and wiped away the crusted blood. When it was gone, he paused for some time, waiting for the world to steady itself around him, wondering if he would need to vomit in the basin himself. _The water closet would be preferable_ , he thought. He was trying to decide if he would have sufficient time to get there when the nausea mercifully passed. He took a few deep breaths, splashed some water onto his face, and headed back out toward the dining room.

Julia gently pried George's mouth open, placed the thermometer under his tongue, and carefully closed his lips around it, then glanced at the clock on the shelf. Three minutes passed in relative silence. William returned to the room just in time to watch her withdraw the thermometer and read it. "My God," she breathed. "Nearly 106˚, and that's by mouth. No wonder he seized." She turned to the table next to the tub to put the thermometer down, and retrieved a cup containing a clear brown liquid. "He needs to drink this."

"What is it?" asked William, dipping the cloth into the cool water and then squeezing it out before he began swabbing at George's flushed face. He wondered briefly if he should be applying ice to his own, but he did not want to worry Julia.

"Tincture of willow bark, in tea. It will help bring the fever down, and the liquid will help make sure the fever doesn't dehydrate him." She crouched on the other side of the bathtub and brought the cup to George's lips, pouring the contents carefully into his mouth, tipping his head back to encourage him to swallow them, dabbing away any that dribbled onto his chin.

The couple took turns tending to their feverish patient: William dipping the cloth, squeezing it out, swabbing his forehead; Julia feeding him a few sips of the bitter liquid; both finding whatever comfort they could in the silent routine. Eventually the tea was gone—how much into George and how much into the bath, it was difficult to know, but any amount of the medicine was better than nothing. Julia took over the swabbing duties from William, speaking quietly to their patient. "You're going to be all right, George. It's all right. You will be well. We're here, George. William and I are here."

William, usually lightning fast at receiving and processing new information, was finding it difficult to think clearly. He was shaken by the ferocity and strength with which George had fought him, never having imagined that a pleasant dinner with a dear friend would suddenly turn into a brutal scuffle that left him bloodied and sore, and their friend apparently fighting for his life. At the same time, he watched Julia's ministrations with reverence. _How often have I seen her deft, confident work with the dead in her morgue? How rarely do I see her bestow this gentle, compassionate, meticulous care on someone who is still among the living? How can I be so fortunate as to call this woman my wife?_

Unsure of what else to do, he continued to sit and observe as Julia tenderly nursed George Crabtree. He spent some time building a sentence in his mind, and finally he used it to break the silence: "You've a lovely bedside manner, Doctor Ogden."

"I could say the same about you, Nurse Murdoch," she joked, and he smiled. "I do try to maintain a warm demeanour with all my patients, but come now, William, this is _George_."

"We cannot lose him, Julia." William was suddenly flooded with emotion. "For those five months that he was imprisoned I felt I was missing a limb, and when I thought he'd died with Constable Jackson..." The wave of affection for the quirky, loyal constable nearly overwhelmed him, and he blinked back more than a few tears. The word "friend" hardly seemed sufficient to describe the magnitude of his regard for George Crabtree.

Julia laid a wet hand on his arm. "I know. I know. He is very dear to both of us."


	3. Late night, August 30

The tea took just over half an hour to bring George's fever down to 104.1F. He was dimly aware of being lifted out of the tub, and placed on the floor next to it.

Both William and Julia felt protective of George at the best of times. They were both struck by the sight of him leaning up against their tub, seated on the bathmat, head lolling to the side: he looked weak, and vulnerable, and small. Julia fought an impulse to embrace him. Instead, she wrapped him with a towel and started to dry him off.

"The—the—" William gestured at George. The phrase came to him only very slowly. "The union suit. Union suit," he repeated. "Can it come off him now?"

"Yes," Julia nodded. "His fever's down enough for the moment, and it can't be comfortable. I'll go get him some of your pyjamas so he's decent when we do take him to the hospital."

George was awake, but only just. His hold on consciousness was tenuous at best, and all he knew was that he was _cold._ He wanted nothing more than to be free of the wet, clammy _thing_ he was dressed in. He tried to fumble at the buttons, but his hands refused to obey. He closed his eyes in frustration for a moment, then opened them again a sliver when he realized that his superior officer was undressing him instead. It crossed his mind that he should be mortified, but he was too ill to care. He closed his eyes once more, and felt William slipping his left arm out of the wet clothing.

William was surprised by the sight of the bandage: George hadn't said anything about an injury. He unwrapped it carefully and lifted it off to reveal a distressing sight: four small, dark, weeping puncture wounds in a neat line, surrounded by hot, angry red blotches. "Julia?" he called out with some alarm. "Julia! Come look at this!"

Julia arrived quickly, and knelt down to examine the wounds. "My God," she breathed. "Look at that infection. Most likely the cause of the fever." She reached out and gently probed the area near the wounds until George yelped and his eyes flew open. "I'm sorry, George!" she apologized immediately. "How did this happen?"

George spoke with great effort. "Cherry Street. The hooligan."

"The fork. Of course. You didn't tell us he got you too! Who looked after you?" Julia asked, gesturing to the remnants of the bandage.

"Miss Hart. She… rinsed out the wounds, and wrapped me up. I thought… that would settle it. Thought it was… nothing." George's voice was hollow, sounding as if it were coming from very far away.

The three were suddenly startled by the ring of the telephone, and William excused himself to answer it, checking his pocket watch on the way. It took him a moment to focus. _11:15pm on a Thursday? Something must be badly wrong, and not just here_. As William left, Julia stroked George's uninjured shoulder a few times, and spoke to reassure him. "All right, George. We'll look after you. Let's get those wounds bandaged up again and then we'll get you dressed." She tried to sound cheerful, but her expressive face betrayed her deep concern.

George hissed and then whimpered plaintively when Julia poured a solution of dilute carbolic acid over the four small wounds, and then applied a cloth saturated with colloidal silver. She secured the cloth with a bandage that she tied loosely, and then gently laid his arm back by his side. His head slumped toward it. "You'll be all right, George," she murmured.

She turned to the set of William's pyjamas that she had brought from the bedroom. She unbuttoned the pyjama shirt and carefully leaned her passive, sweltering patient forward to slide it onto him, first one sleeve, then the other, before she buttoned it up again over his chest. He remained sitting on the bathmat with his south half covered by the soaking wet union suit, while Julia pondered the best way to get him out of it and into the pyjama trousers. She debated whether to wait for William, or help him with it herself. _Not like I haven't seen him in the altogether before,_ she thought, remembering their exquisitely uncomfortable encounter at the naturist colony. _And in any case,_ she told herself, _honestly, Julia Ogden. You are a medical doctor who has seen hundreds if not thousands of unclothed bodies in your work. This is just one more._

"George, I'm going to help you get some clothes on so you can go lie down while we wait for a carriage to the hospital." She waited for any sign of resistance, but none came. She nodded and said as brightly as she could, "Now let's get you out of this soggy thing." He grunted slightly in agreement.

A pale, unsteady William, hand on the back of his head, returned to the sight of a semiconscious George on his back on the bathroom floor, his top half clad in William's own pyjama shirt and his head supported by a rolled-up towel. The rest of him was as naked as the day he was born, as Julia inched his waterlogged drawers toward his feet. The absurdity of the situation struck William abruptly. He cleared his throat, and Julia glanced up to see him smirk. "Julia, to see you in this position in any other set of circumstances with any other man would make me most upset."

Julia laughed out loud as she realized how scandalous her actions appeared. "Oh, my goodness, I suppose so! Here I am in front of my husband, stripping his best friend nearly nude right in front of him. And in our marital home, no less!"

William nearly guffawed. "I suppose we do have rather a unique relationship with Mr. George Crabtree."

She noticed George's thin-lipped, lopsided smile. "Now George, don't let this go to your head. William, would you please help me?"

Once they finished dressing George, they lifted and carried him to the hidden sofa, draped in an oilcloth, and eased him down onto it. Julia arranged a few pillows under his head and upper back, and placed another beneath his knees before she laid a quilt over him.

"You rest here, George. I'll go call a carriage."

George's eyes were already closed. He nodded almost imperceptibly. "Thank you… Julia," he whispered.

"You are most welcome, Constable Crabtree," she answered with affection, and touched his cheek. William cleared his throat again to get Julia's attention, and shot her a meaningful look. Taking her by the arm, he steered her toward the bedroom.

Julia was irritated at being asked to leave George's side. "What is it, William?" she asked with some annoyance after he closed the door behind them. "Surely you can't think it inappropriate for George to use my Christian name?"

William shook his head, which was aching more than ever. The nausea washed over him again. He tried to ignore it. "No, of course not, that's not it at all. That was Constable Martinson from Station House 4. The man that George and Henry sent to the lockup died about an hour ago." He paused, struggling to find the words. "Six other people that he accosted on Cherry Street are at Toronto General Hospital, all with fevers of at least 105, all sedated after violently assaulting family members and hospital staff. The City's Medical Officer of Health has declared a quarantine on the hospital ward and the cells at the station house."

Julia's heart skipped a beat. Her eyes grew wide as she considered what William was saying. "William. Do you understand what this means? George could have an infectious disease. He… he attacked you. And six other people attacking more…" She blanched as she realized the implications. "This could affect the whole city. My God. Do you know why there are hundreds of graves in St. James Cemetery marked 1834?"

"Wasn't there was a cholera epide-?"

He stopped short. The word hung in the air: _Epidemic._ Julia's train of thought hit him hard.

"Yes. And there were only 5,000 people here then. There are over 300,000 now. If another epidemic comes through… worse, one that incites its victims to violence…" she trailed off. "My God, William, it's unthinkable."

Ashen, she threw open the door and fled the room. A stricken William sank heavily onto the bed; he held his pounding head in his hands as the enormity of the situation sank in. A mysterious, apparently highly contagious ailment had caused George Crabtree, his best friend and right-hand man, to attack him out of nowhere, and now George lay deathly ill in his sitting room. William wondered anxiously: Would he and Julia become as ill as George, after such intimate contact with their infected patient? Was there a risk that he would assault his own beloved? Had the disease spread to his colleagues at the station house? Where had it come from? How far had it spread into Toronto? How much further would it go?

He was torn as to whether to vomit, cry, or pray. _Dear God, what has come to our city? What has come into our home?_

* * *

William emerged from the bedroom to find Julia on the telephone, asking for a Doctor Clarence Morris. It took William a moment to recognize the name and remember he had occasionally worked with the man in his capacity as the City of Toronto's Chief Medical Officer of Health. Julia knew him as a former classmate from medical school. William recalled a competent man, somewhat stiff and cautious.

"Hello, Clarence, how are you? I'm very glad to have reached you. Please convey my apologies to your wife for waking her. She told me that you were at the hospital. Is it true that you are attending patients on the quarantine ward?"

While Doctor Morris was replying, Julia waved for William's attention. She gestured at the basin and towel, and then at George. William looked at her quizzically and mimed a swabbing motion— _keep sponging him?_ Julia nodded. William, glad for at least _something_ useful to do, refilled the basin, took his position on a stool at George's bedside, and got back to work. _It's all right, George. You're going to be all right._ The room swam around him, and he wondered if he should have the basin nearby for himself.

Julia continued. "Yes, I have a patient with me at my home who was injured in an altercation with the man who passed in the cells at Station House No. 4 – apparently the same one who assaulted the people you are observing now?"

William did not like the sound of this.

"My patient here is most unwell," Julia told her colleague. Her speech was clipped, rapid, professional. "Extremely rapid onset of high fever, followed almost immediately by a febrile seizure. The postictal state involved great agitation and violent behaviour until the administration of an intramuscular dose of phenobarbital." She paused while Doctor Morris spoke.

"No, the fever peaked at 105.8 measured orally, and is down to 104.1 after immersion of the patient in tepid water as well as oral administration of a solution of willow bark powder in water. I am continuing to monitor him." Another pause, longer this time.

"The cause of the fever would seem to be infection present in four small puncture wounds on the left deltoid. The area was irrigated within an hour of the injury and has since been treated with carbolic acid and colloidal silver." Another pause. "Yes, the patient reported the mechanism of the injury was a stabbing motion with a fork."

William wished beyond words that he could hear what Doctor Morris was saying. Perhaps he could modify the telephone to use a speaker such as the one on Julia's Victrola, and procure a more powerful microphone so that more than one person in the room could participate in the conversation…

"Yes." William's attention snapped back to Julia at the alarm in the single syllable. "During the aggressive phase my patient attacked another person and did indeed draw blood." William's hand instinctively found its way to the laceration on his cheek as Julia locked eyes with him. They continued to stare at each other as Julia listened intently.

"Ten days!" she exclaimed. "Not at all? But what if—" she broke off again. William strained to follow. Julia saw his eyes lose focus and an uncharacteristic confusion cross his face.

"I can certainly understand the edict, but I hope you can understand that we will require some outside support. Constable Crabtree is gravely ill and inflicted a laceration and possible head injury on Detective Murdoch. There is not enough food in the house for a full ten days, I will be in need of various medical and laboratory supplies to provide proper care to Constable Crabtree and to work on the isolation and analysis of whatever pathogen is at work here, and if he is capable, Detective Murdoch will certainly want to take part in the Constabulary's investigation of how such a dangerous threat came to Toronto…"

 _What?_ thought William, his head swimming. _What investigation? Investigation – I must be needed at the station house. Can't she work in the lab at the morgue? If I am capable? But George is the sick one. Why is she talking about food? Ten days until what?_ Everything was making less and less sense.

"Well I shall of course keep you informed of any changes here, and I do ask that you do the same for me. We will speak in the morning? All right, then. It's good to talk to you, although I do regret the current circumstances. Good night, Clarence." Julia hung up and took a deep breath.

William's head throbbed, and he regarded Julia anxiously. He was trying to assemble another sentence when she spoke.

"Well, there is good news, and there is bad news. The good news is that George may be through the worst of it, and our prompt care for his fever has likely saved his life."

William took a moment. "George is ill," he said dully, regarding the sleeping man in the bed. He looked at the cloth in his hand. "We are caring for him."

Julia's unease grew. "Yes, William, George is ill. But it appears he will survive."

"Good news, then. That is… good."

"Yes. But there is also bad news. His illness appears to be contagious, spread by contact with the blood of an infected individual, and in the interest of public safety, we are indeed all three quarantined to this house for the next ten days. No one can come in, and no one can leave. And may God help us if either one of us becomes ill too."

Julia's gaze at William turned piercing. She had been watching him carefully during her dispiriting conversation with Doctor Morris, and he did not look himself at all. His eyes were closed and he looked queasy. "William, are you all right?" she asked him urgently. _Please say you are. I cannot bear the thought of losing you, and I am not sure I can manage two desperately sick men on my own. Please, William. Please be fine._

"I'm fine." The reply came much too fast.

 _No, you are not,_ she thought resignedly. She knew him too well. "William," she chided. "This is no time for prevarication. I will ask you again, and I expect an honest answer. Are you all right?"

He could feel her staring at him. His reply was much slower this time. "I… I don't know. I suppose I am… somewhat foggy."

 _Dear God, William, not you too._ A chill ran down her spine and into her arms.

Her professionalism clicked back into place. _Assessment, diagnosis, treatment._ There was no other way to manage the surge of fear. "You appear to be experiencing disorientation and confusion. Has your vision blurred?"

"Yes," he replied miserably.

She strode to him and lifted his eyelids, one at a time, and watched the pupils contract. He flinched, and looked back at her for a moment. "Are you finding the light to be painful?" Another brief "Yes" before he squeezed his eyes closed again. "Any feelings of nausea?"

"Mm-hmm." He grimaced.

"Headache?" A very slight nod. "Where?" she demanded. "Which part of your head?"

"The back. And here," he breathed, laying his palm just above his left eyebrow. Instinctively she reached out to touch his forehead, and thrilled slightly to find it cool. The tightness in her stomach eased a little.

She reached around to palpate the back of his head, finding a large, swollen lump. He inhaled sharply, trying not to cry out. "I'm sorry," she said with chagrin. She took his hand and pressed his thumbnail, then watched it closely. "Your perfusion is good. Let me see the laceration on your face."

He leaned forward slightly to oblige. The skin on his cheekbone was beginning to bruise, but to Julia's great relief, the cut itself looked innocuous. William had cleaned away the blood and there was only a small scratch that already looked to be healing well. She exhaled sharply, and kissed him on the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, William. Oh, my love. The cut on your face does not look infected and you have no fever. All the symptoms you've identified—the headache, the sensitivity to light, the nausea and confusion—and the bump on the back of your head aren't consistent with what I've seen in George. William, I don't think you're ill with whatever George has, I think you're _concussed_."

Saying the words aloud made her almost giddy. _He's not ill. Who would ever have thought I would be thrilled that my cherished husband has a concussion?_

William sensed her change in mood, and her relief washed over him as well. He opened his beautiful brown eyes to gaze at her briefly before the light got to be too much again. "Concussion? I'm not… in Bristol again?"

She smiled in spite of herself. "Heavens no, it's certainly not as bad as all that. Your pupils are equal and reactive, and… you do know who you are, right?"

A long pause while he fought down enough of the headache to joke with her. "Of course I do. I'm Inspector Thomas C. Brackenreid of the Toronto Constabulary." Julia's eyes widened, and she stared at him until he could no longer keep a straight face.

"Drat you, William Henry Murdoch!" she whispered with barely concealed amusement, and hit him in the arm with a pillow. His grin grew wide. "At least one of us thinks you're funny. Come now, let's get you to bed." She helped him to his feet, and started leading him to the bedroom. "You need rest and darkness for a few days. I'll get you some laudanum for the pain, and hyoscine for the nausea, and an ice pack for your head."

* * *

It was well after midnight, and William was tucked into bed, asleep almost the moment his head hit the pillow. He had acquiesced to the laudanum and hyoscine without protest, letting her administer them after he had helped her unlace her corset. Julia could think of no surer sign of just how drained he was. She hoped he would sleep well into the day.

The house was dim and quiet. Julia slipped into a loose, lacy nightgown and a pair of slippers, and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She made herself a cup of tea, and moved one of the armchairs next to George so she could sit with him and monitor his fever as he slept.

 _George looks twenty years younger when he's asleep_ , she thought. _Such a kind soul, and the past few years have been so hard on him. Emily, and Edna, and Nina... it's just so tragic. He deserves better. I can't think of an unmarried man who would be a better husband._ She watched his chest rise and fall for quite some time, finding comfort in the rhythm of his breathing as she wrote notes about his case, as she would on a chart if he were where he should be, in hospital.

 _Good heavens, I'm tired,_ she thought. The adrenaline was long gone and she was quietly reeling from the evening's events, the news from the station house and the hospital, and the prospect of ten days' forced confinement to the house with a concussed husband, a desperately ill George, and no one else. _I'll just close my eyes for a moment_ — _maybe when I open them, everything will be fine…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: The Medical Officer of Health in Toronto at the time was a Doctor Charles Sheard. The one in this story is not entirely sympathetic, and I didn't want to malign the real person, so I invented someone new.


	4. August 31, Day One

The sun's rays began to filter in through the stained glass windows. One traced a path across Julia, and she awoke with a start.

She was disoriented for a moment. _Why am I at William's desk? Who is that on the hidden sofa? Where is William?_

It came back to her all at once: _It's George. He's ill. William is hurt. You are alone._ She could almost hear the Inspector mutter "Bollocks."

She looked at the clock: 5:50am. George had long since knocked the compress off his forehead and he was nearly crimson with fever again. His face shone with perspiration as he turned his head from side to side, perhaps caught in the grip of a bad dream.

"George," she called to him, and placed a hand on his forehead. "Oh, George. You're burning up again." She pinched up a fold of skin on the back of his hand and watched as it returned to normal far too slowly. "You're dehydrated, too. Oh, George, I'm so sorry, I fell asleep. I should have been looking after you." A note of despair crept into her voice. "I'll be right back."

True to her word, Julia returned to George's bedside in moments, a fresh cold compress for his forehead at the ready, and a cup of willow bark tea. She sat him up carefully and held the cup to his fevered lips. "Drink, George. You need the fluids and it will bring your fever down."

"Hurts," he murmured, still half asleep, as he glanced down at his arm.

"I know. I need to look at it. When you've finished drinking this, I'm going to unbutton your shirt so I can take off your bandage and see." An almost imperceptible nod as he took a few sips of liquid.

Suddenly his expression changed to one of distress. "Aunt Ivy," he said clearly. "Aunt Ivy said she needed me to sweep out the fireplaces. I have to go help her. She'll be upset if I dilly-dally." He started to sit up and push back the covers.

 _Wonderful. Delusions,_ she thought grimly, recalling some of her more challenging patients at the asylum _._ "No, George, you needn't do that right now. It's all right. You are ill and you need to drink fluids and stay in bed."

"But the fireplaces are my job! Aunt Ivy might send me to bed without supper again!" His eyes were glassy, and he tried to sit upright, resisting Julia's ministrations.

She placed her palms on his chest and pushed him back down as gently as she could. She chose her words carefully: she could not bear to lie to the sweet, guileless man. "George. You are very sick. Aunt Ivy has released you from fireplace duty. I'm quite sure she'll want you to stay right here where I can take care of you. And you may eat as much as you wish." _Yes. All of that is true._

"She has? But who's going to clean them, then?" George stared at her intently, his wide, trusting eyes searching hers.

"It's all right, George. The fireplaces are fine. Your job right now is to finish every drop in this cup, and then let me look at your arm, and then lie down and rest. That's all you need do. You're ill. Just rest." She held his gaze.

Awareness dawned on him, at least for a moment. "D- Doctor Ogden?"

"Yes, George, it's Julia. It's me. Please drink this." She picked up the cup and raised it to his lips again, and he obediently pushed himself up onto his elbows and drained it.

"I believe I may be unwell," he said as he sank back into the pillow.

"Yes, you are," she told him kindly, laying the cold compress across his forehead. "You are most unwell, my dear George. I promise I will do everything I know how to do for you."

She unbuttoned the pyjama shirt, and fished out his arm. The wounds on his shoulder looked no better. The bandage was full of pus, and the red splotches on his arm had developed into angry streaks down his arm and up across his shoulder. "It still hurts?" she asked.

"Yes," he breathed. "So much." He winced as she reapplied the carbolic acid and gauze saturated with colloidal silver. She wrapped it again, and rolled him onto his right side before she tucked the quilt back over him. _If this goes on, I'll have to turn him every few hours so he doesn't get bedsores._

"I suppose since we're not going to the hospital there's no use putting you back in the pyjama shirt," she told him. "Perhaps one of William's undervests so it's easier when I'm changing your bandages or giving you injections. Yes. I'll get you one now."

"An injection, or an undervest?" There was a glimmer of mischief in his eye for a moment until the pain overtook him again.

"An undervest, you silly man," said Julia with great affectionate. _He's still in there. This man and his ridiculous sense of humour, even at the worst of times._ "Although I see that you are in enough pain that I shall dose you with some laudanum as well."

The lines on George's face eased slightly at the prospect of some relief, but then he tensed again. "Where's the detective? Where's William?"

Julia swallowed hard. "He's in the bedroom. He's asleep." _You don't need to know why_. "I'll be back, George. You rest." She touched his face gently, and he closed his eyes.

* * *

William was indeed asleep; he had not moved since Julia had tucked him in around midnight. "William? William!" Julia whispered, sitting down next to him, and laid her hand on his cheek. _Oh thank God, he's still cool._ She released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "William!" A little bit louder this time.

He opened one eye a sliver, and patted the bed next to himself. She was nearly overcome by a desire to curl up next to him, savour his warmth and his scent, let him wrap her in his arms—

"I can't," she said. "I'm looking after George. But you've no idea how much I want to. How are you? Let me look at your eyes."

William squinted, even though the room was still relatively dim behind drawn curtains. Julia gently lifted one eyelid, then the other. "Look at me," she said, and he did. His eyes focused slightly better than they had the night before. "Pupils still equal and reactive. No visible evidence of intracranial hematoma," she said out loud, as much to herself as to William. "Who is the Prime Minister?"

"Sir Wilfrid Laurier," he said without hesitation.

She produced a small hammer with a triangular head, and pulled his arm out from under the covers. "I'm going to test your reflexes. Hold still." She located his biceps tendon and tapped it firmly, then nodded in satisfaction and tucked his arm back in. "Your foot?" she asked, moving to the end of the bed. He stuck it out obligingly, and she ran the end of the hammer along the sole, then tapped the Achilles' tendon. "Your reflexes look fine. Do you know where you are?"

"I'm in Toronto, in my home, in my bed, with my beautiful wife, whom I adore." Another sigh of relief. _This could have been so much worse_ , Julia thought _._ William closed his eyes again.

"Does the light still hurt?" she asked. A slight nod. "You're still in pain." She could see the lines of it etched on his beautiful face. "I'll take your lack of response as a 'yes.' I'll get you some more laudanum too." William grunted but did not refuse. She kissed him tenderly, and got up to get dressed.

* * *

She was standing in front of the closet when it hit her: _ten days without a corset. Ten days!_ For a moment she nearly giggled like a schoolgirl. _I knew there had to be a silver lining!_ she thought gleefully. _Perhaps I shall even wear William's trousers. He won't be using them for a few days, and they are so much more comfortable and practical. Why not?_

After she was dressed herself, in an old blouse and, yes, William's old canvas work trousers (plus a set of braces to keep them up), she pulled a fresh undervest from William's drawer, and dropped it off next to George before she went to the front hall and retrieved her medical bag. _I might as well just unpack this and put everything away in the kitchen, if I'm going to be here for ten days with sick and injured men. But first, laudanum for the both of them, and George's undervest._

Both efforts went relatively smoothly. William raised an amused eyebrow at Julia's attire and she shrugged. She gave him a modest dose of the laudanum, knowing he hated feeling muddled, and he rolled over to try to sleep. She returned to George's bedside bearing the laudanum, a basin, a towel, and a large pitcher of lukewarm water. Within half an hour she had medicated him, sponge bathed him, dressed him again, and fed him at least another quart of water. He was awake, barely, and he hardly spoke as she worked, remaining limp and passive in her hands. She felt a pang as she laid him back down, on his back this time, and tucked him in once again. He was still flushed, and there were dark circles under his eyes. _Oh, George. How awful to see you this way._ She placed a new cold compress on his forehead, and, impulsively, leaned over and kissed his head affectionately. _Be well, George. Be the strong and brave man I know that you are. Fight._

With both men asleep, Julia returned to the kitchen to make herself some tea and toast. At eight o'clock she phoned Station House No. 4 to speak to Inspector Brackenreid, and relay the grim news: Crabtree was desperately ill, William was injured and would not be himself for at minimum several days, and she was confined with the both of them to the house on Lamport Avenue for at least a week after that.

The inspector had bad news of his own: Overnight, one of the six patients in the quarantine ward at the hospital attacked a nurse before he died; hours thereafter, the nurse had fallen ill with fever herself. He also reported on the investigative work to determine the origin of the illness: the lads at the station house had identified the dead man in the cells as one Elias Price, recently arrived in the city as a crewmember on a steam barge carrying coal from Erie, Pennsylvania, to the Toronto Electric Light Company. Henry and John were tracking Price's movements before his fateful evening on Cherry Street. The inspector himself had telegraphed the ship, already headed back to Erie, with an urgent request that it return to Toronto for disinfection and examination of its crew.

Julia nodded, and took a sip of tea. "Thank you, Tom. I have some investigative work I would like to do myself. There will most certainly be efforts underway as well to analyse the pathology of the infection. I would think it only appropriate that I be involved, given that I am treating a patient who has so far survived it, and my analysis of any tissue or bodily fluids here does not create any risk of spreading the illness outside these four walls."

"I suppose you're right. What do you need?" The man's voice held a note of paternal kindness.

"I will telephone Miss Hart in the morgue about the necessary laboratory supplies. William has been setting up a workshop, so I will take inventory of what is here already—perhaps you could ask a constable to pick up the rest and bring it over. I will also telephone the hospital to consult about best courses of treatment for Constable Crabtree – I may need someone to pick up medication and other equipment there." She looked about the desk for a pen and paper, already making mental notes about what she would need.

"What about you, love?" Brackenreid asked. "You've got your hands full there. You'll be needing food, of course. Tell you what. I'll talk to Margaret and we'll look after feeding you lot. Last thing you need to muck about with right now is cooking. Tell us what you'd like to eat—what are some of your favourites?—and we'll drop it off at the door."

A lump rose in Julia's throat. She hardly dared think of her own needs, but of course she had to look after herself if she was to look after William and George. And if she didn't have to worry about what to feed them... She took a breath. "My God, Tom, that's quite an offer. I… I'm not sure I can accept. Are you and Margaret even speaking right now?"

"Never you mind, love. I'll take care of it. I know you feel alone there, but you're not. We're with you. And both Bugalugs and Bugalugs could not be in better hands."

Julia was nearly speechless. "Tom."

"Listen," he continued. "You make a list of what you need, and you call me back and read it to me, and I'll make sure it all gets to you. John and I will bring it ourselves."

"Oh, Tom. This is so kind of you. I'm afraid I'm going to have to accept, although please don't cause any more strife in your marriage on our behalf. I couldn't live with that. But whatever you can do is certainly appreciated. I… yes. Thank you." She trailed off. Tears of gratitude welled up, and she blinked them away.

"Of course, me ol' mucker. You look after those lads and we'll look after you."

The instant she hung up, the tears came in earnest, the night's pent-up emotion pouring out in a rush. _I'm_ not _alone. Tom will make sure we get what we need, and we will get through this._ She sat down heavily in the armchair at George's bedside, and held his hand, and wept.

* * *

It took some time for Julia to collect herself. Finally, her breath slowed and she was no longer gulping for air. The cry was cathartic, and she had needed the release. _Yet another thing to thank Tom for_ , she thought. She dried her eyes, went to her desk, and sat down with a pen and paper to make her various lists. She would need three: one for the Brackenreids, one for Miss Hart, and one for her colleagues at the hospital. The last was perhaps the most urgent: she needed sterile supplies, antiseptics, and disinfectants to minimize the risk of contamination from whatever had laid George low, as well as pain medication, and that distillate of meadowsweet extract that Dr. Jenkins had been working on to study its antipyretic properties. It looked like she was going to need as much help as she could get in bringing George's fever down.

Clarence sounded exhausted, but still interested in the details about the progression of George's symptoms. He reported remarkably similar news from his own patients on the quarantine ward—a rapid onset of fever, a seizure followed by a violent postictal phase, and an infected wound site. He mentioned a few measures he was using to keep them comfortable, including morphine—"None of this messing about with something as mild as laudanum," he sniffed. _Well, morphine isn't generally something I leave lying about my home,_ Julia thought, but held her tongue.

Clarence continued. The patient who had died was an inebriate whose stay in the hospital had sent him into alcohol withdrawal, the symptoms of which had not been recognized early enough to be treated because they were too similar to those of the mysterious illness. He agreed that the best approach for George was to keep him as comfortable as possible, and continue to monitor his fever and keep an eye on his wound, essentially waiting for the infection to run its course. "Let the fever do its work," he told her.

He told her the others were still feverish; some, including the one who had attacked the nurse, had experienced violent spells but were now quiet. The nurse herself had received treatment immediately after her injury, which turned out to be only a minor scrape—Doctor Morris had insisted the abrasion be washed thoroughly several times with a solution of carbolic acid and again with Resorcin, then allowed to dry in the open air—and so far she had not taken ill. Julia noted this bit of information on the paper where she was keeping her records about George's condition and treatment. Every bit of new knowledge about the illness could be a clue to how to cure it.

Doctor Forbes was gracious about Julia's unplanned absence, and offered whatever help he could. He also agreed to coordinate with Doctor Morris, even if it was by telephone within the hospital to maintain the quarantine, to prepare a parcel of various supplies to be delivered to the house on Lamport Avenue. Julia thanked him gratefully, and rang off.

* * *

Julia next placed a call to Violet Hart, to explain the situation and request more deliveries. Summing it all up again, especially out loud, was disheartening. As the conversation progressed, though, Julia began to find Miss Hart's deep curiosity and open self-assurance unusually comforting. Julia sometimes found the younger woman's confident perfectionism a bit naïve, if not even (and she hated to admit it) a little irritating. But today, she very much needed a reminder of Miss Hart's inquisitiveness and perseverance as they discussed George's mysterious illness, and the support coming from the Brackenreids and Julia's colleagues at the hospital. Julia was relieved to realize she had the support of such a competent assistant through the current crisis.

Miss Hart provided two important pieces of information: first, she had not yet been able to perform an autopsy on the corpse of Mr. Price, as Doctor Morris was demanding a properly qualified pathologist with experience in controlling for infectious diseases. Second, she had a dried sample of George's blood on the clothing he had accidentally left in the morgue when she had cleansed and bandaged his wound. She had been researching how to rehydrate a dried blood sample in such a way as to minimize contamination, as well as the histology of infectious diseases, and planned to begin her analysis shortly. Julia thanked her, asking to hear about results as soon as any were known, and cautioned her to be extremely careful with the blood – the last thing anyone needed was another patient.

Miss Hart made a request of the doctor: she wished to obtain a sample of George's blood at the current stage of the illness to compare it with the sample from before the onset. Julia was tempted for a moment, but knew she had to maintain the quarantine, for both personal and professional reasons. Nothing could leave the house until the ten days' seclusion was over. Miss Hart was disappointed but gracious at the refusal. Julia did agree that a comparative analysis would be useful; it would just require more collaboration than usual, as the samples for comparison would not be in the same place.

The conversation concluded with an itemization, composed by both of them, of everything Julia would need to analyse blood, sputum, urine, and tissue from within her own home. Miss Hart promised that a delivery would arrive by evening.

Julia was thoughtful as she got off the telephone. She was torn about the degree to which she should champion Miss Hart to Clarence. She had confidence in her assistant's meticulous, thorough work, but she could understand Clarence's objections as well. The ambitious young woman did not yet have the training about infection control during pathological procedures, and her work would be scrutinized so closely that any delays due to inexperience would cast doubt on the entire arrangement of Miss Hart's position, in light of Julia's studies and work at the hospital that so often kept her away from the morgue. Julia reluctantly concluded that the stakes were too high to leave the autopsy entirely in Miss Hart's hands.

 _Well, if you're going to hold onto the position of Chief Coroner, you might as well wield its power, wisely, of course,_ she mused. She came to a decision: she would indeed advocate for Miss Hart, although perhaps not as strenuously as Miss Hart might have hoped. She would insist that Miss Hart be allowed to observe and assist at the autopsy; her leading it was out of the question.

She did feel a pang of regret at not being able to support her more—if she were not trapped on Lamport Avenue, she would be happy to provide some brief training and then allow Miss Hart to lead the procedure while she observed. It would be, after all, her own signature appearing on the report. But she knew that anyone else would certainly not be so willing to act as mentor to someone without a medical degree, let alone a woman, and a coloured one, at that. Alas.

* * *

William awoke shortly after noon, still nursing a tremendous headache. He was unsteady enough on his feet that Julia had to support him to the water closet. Once he was back in bed, she told him about Margaret's generous offer, and they discussed what kind of provisions would be appropriate to request. William suggested some easily prepared foods, such as potatoes (George's favourite), cold meats and cheeses, dried fruits, and bread for sandwiches, at least until he was in better condition to help in the kitchen. Julia agreed, and telephoned Tom again.

Julia could not quite interpret the Inspector's tone when he spoke about his conversation with Margaret. Apparently she was most eager to help, but had been put off by a telephone call from Miss Hart – something about special food for George? Julia reassured him that George was not likely to eat much at all until his fever diminished, and explained that she and William would be perfectly content with simple foods such as those one might take to a picnic. Tom said he would pass the word along, and a delivery would likely arrive within hours.

The delivery from the hospital was the first to appear, in a crate lined with a clean white sheet. Apparently Doctors Morris and Forbes had also consulted with the nurses and orderlies: along with the morphine and syringes, there were eminently practical objects such as hospital gowns, two bedpans, latex gloves, sterile distilled water, hospital-laundered towels, and supplies for disinfecting the household, including several pounds of lime that Julia could use for limewater, as well as Cresol for sterilizing syringes and thermometers.[i] Julia telephoned Doctor Forbes to thank him, and then set about preparing the limewater so she could wipe down the dining room and the area around George's sickbed.

When that task was complete, she returned to George's side to check his temperature ( _still too high_ ), change him into a hospital gown ( _much more compatible with the bedpan_ ), sponge him down some more, and replace the compress on his forehead. George remained mostly asleep during the whole process.

She was just finishing George's ablutions when the telephone rang. It was Margaret Brackenreid. She and Julia exchanged the usual pleasantries, and then Margaret got right to the point.

"Now you may have heard that I have spoken with, ah, the Inspector."

 _Oh dear_ , thought Julia. _S_ _he won't even speak his name. This is so very awkward_.

Margaret continued. "I am so terribly sorry to hear about your plight, and the condition of Constable Crabtree! I understand that you are in need of meals, and I am certainly delighted to be at your service. I seem to recall from evenings when we have dined together that Detective Murdoch is quite fond of mutton cutlets. Do you have any especial preferences, or dislikes? The caterers I work with in planning weddings have shown me how to prepare a particularly lovely lobster soufflé…"

"My goodness, Margaret, certainly we don't need anything as elaborate as all that. As I told the Inspector, we would be quite content with sandwiches and the like. Simple food requiring little or no preparation would be ideal. Please don't go to any great trouble."

Margaret's reply came without hesitation. "Nonsense. I won't hear of it. You are in a most difficult situation and I insist that you be looked after properly. Why, even your own Miss Hart"—Julia was curious about the hint of veiled contempt in Margaret's voice—"has made quite the case for proper nutrition for Constable Crabtree, and you and the detective deserve no less. Don't you worry. I'll take care of everything. John and I will make the first delivery this afternoon."

After she put down the phone, Julia took a few minutes to ruminate on the conversation. Margaret had sounded cheerful, but there was an undercurrent to her tone that Julia could not quite identify. _Probably just as well that I wasn't party to her talk with Tom. Their conflict is between them; right now I'm in no position to get involved. And what is all this about Miss Hart? Never mind; nothing I can do at the moment. I must see to William._

* * *

Miss Hart and Detective Watts knocked on the front door to announce the arrival of a crate and a large basket. They waved through the window as they climbed back into the waiting carriage; Julia was rueful at not being able to speak to them face to face. After they had gone, she opened the door and brought in first the crate, labelled "FRAGILE," and then the basket. Both were quite heavy, so she slid them across the floor.

The crate contained a microscope, carefully packed lab glass (pipets, flasks, beakers, Petri dishes), a Bunsen burner and stand, slides and cover slips, and bottles of the reagents necessary for various types of analysis of tissue and blood. There was a small metal box sealed by a piece of twine. Julia untied it and lifted the lid to find two small pieces of fabric, one white and one a dark navy blue, both stained with dried blood. _Bits of George's tunic and union suit!_ she realized jubilantly. _I can do all the analysis here! Bless you, Miss Violet Hart._

Lying atop the contents of the basket was a note, in the morgue assistant's elegant hand.

_Dear Doctor Ogden,_

_Please accept my best wishes for a swift recovery for both Constable Crabtree and Detective Murdoch. I have spoken with Mrs. Brackenreid about your household's need for prepared meals as you care for them, and I hope I have not been presumptuous in taking the liberty of preparing meals for Constable Crabtree for today and the next three days, in accordance with a protocol for feeding fever patients a mixed diet of soft foods and solids, recommended by Doctor Francis Kinnicutt at Columbia University. The protocol is intended to reduce intestinal complications and speed convalescence. I have enclosed a copy of the relevant issue of the Boston Medical and Surgical Journal_ _[ii]_ _for your information._

_I hope what I have prepared is to your satisfaction. Should Constable Crabtree's fever continue, I shall of course provide further meals as he is in need of them. I look forward to discussing laboratory results with you and making further deliveries as necessary, and I am most humbly pleased to be of service._

_I remain yours very truly,_

_Violet Hart._

Attached was a meal plan for George, neatly charted for today and the next three days, with names and amounts of foods, and suggested times of feeding. _5pm, cold milk with salt, diluted with limewater, 1½ cups. Two tablespoons of Mellin's Food powder, prepared with ½ c. milk and ½ c. hot water. 1 cup apple sauce. 7:30pm, potato soup strained and thickened with rice, 1½ cups. Crackers softened in milk._ The chart continued in a similar fashion for the rest of the page and onto the next. _Beef juice. Barley-water gruel. Strained cornmeal gruel. Mashed potatoes._ The basket was full of jars and tins of various sizes, everything carefully labelled and organized by day and meal. At first glance Julia could see custard, and junket, and cream; assorted strained soups; puddings; two loaves of bread, eggs, tins of crackers; containers of minced meat and fish; bottles of Mellin's Food powder, and two gallons of milk.

Julia was astonished. She reread the note and blinked. _How did she_ do _this?_ Never had she expected such an impressive effort—she had herself fallen behind on the medical journals over the summer, and had not yet read the article Miss Hart had enclosed, although some of the provisions seemed dimly familiar. And how had she managed to assemble such a collection of suitable food so quickly? _She is a wonder._

She suddenly remembered the Inspector's words about the interaction between Margaret and Miss Hart, and shook her head imagining how that conversation must have gone. Had Miss Hart's directness irritated her? How involved had Tom become? _She can't have been pleased_ , Julia thought, knowing Margaret's penchant for taking charge of anything that involved planning and arranging within the domestic sphere. _I will have to talk to her, and to Tom, separately, of course. I hope this hasn't caused further friction between them..._

She unpacked everything into the icebox—fortunately the ice man had made a delivery the day of the ill-fated dinner party, so she would not need to worry about how to keep perishables cold for at least another five days, and by that time, William should have recovered sufficiently that the two of them could handle the next delivery with little trouble.

The final delivery of the day, a basket from Margaret Brackenreid, arrived at the dinner hour. Once again, Julia was stunned: Margaret had packed an elaborate gourmet dinner of several courses, including a squash soup, a roast pheasant, an assortment of cheeses and sweetbreads, a light salad, two bunches of grapes, a fresh loaf of French bread, and an almond cake. There were also a dozen eggs and some breakfast pastries for the morning. _Oh, my,_ she thought. _Margaret has outdone herself. This is absolutely lovely. Surely she can't think this can continue for the full ten days…_

Julia had been feeling defeated and overwhelmed, but the arrival of such ample supplies and provisions had lightened her mood. She put a record on the Victrola, the volume turned low, and was setting up the laboratory equipment on one end of the dining table when she heard George begin to stir.

"Hello, George," she greeted him warmly. "I hope you're hungry."

* * *

[i] Source: February 24, 1906, issue of the _Journal of the American Medical Association_.

[ii] July 5, 1906, pp. 1-4.


	5. Morning, September 1, Day Two

Julia had spent another night in the armchair, with interludes of wakefulness when George needed a fresh compress, a drink of water, more willow bark and meadowsweet extract for the fever, or another dose of pain medication. He was in enough pain that she had graduated him from the laudanum to the morphine. Julia was most concerned that his fever persisted in returning each time the antipyretics wore off. She kept recalling the advice of Doctor Forbes to let the fever do its work, but she knew that if she let it get too high it might kill him.

Margaret's pastries were a welcome addition to another morning of nursing the two men. William was improving steadily, and she decided to allow him out of bed to walk around the house a few times and have his breakfast at the table. He was quiet, and the morning light clearly pained him, but Julia was grateful to have him up and about at all.

Julia was sitting George up to feed him his breakfast when William approached and sat down at his desk next to George's sickbed. "Julia, I believe I'm well enough to stop lying about in the bed all day. I'd like to help you look after George, and I'm sure the Inspector could use my assistance in the investigation of the origins of the illness."

Julia stiffened. "I'll be the judge of that, William. Your injury was only two days ago, you are still quite sensitive to light, and you must rest."

"I'm quite all right," said William firmly.

Julia's expression hardened, and she held up her hand. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

William squinted. "Two? No, one."

She picked up a pencil. "Watch the point, and don't move your head," she instructed as she held it in front of him. She moved it from side to side, and then up and down, watching him struggle to follow it. She brought it very close to his nose, and his eyes quickly lost focus. He flinched as if in pain.

Julia's jaw clenched briefly, and she summoned all her patience before she replied. "No, you are not all right. Really, William, I must insist. If you continue to resist the standard treatment for your injury—a _brain_ injury _,_ I might add—you risk not recovering from it. Would you like to go through the rest of your life with your eyesight in its current state? With a wife furious at you for wilfully depriving yourself of a function critical to your livelihood?"

"No, of course not, Julia. It's just so frustrating! I see how hard you are working to look after the both of us, I know the Inspector and Watts and the constables at the station house are doing everything they can to minimize the risk to the city. And all I can do to aid matters is to lie in a darkened room. I feel so _useless_. I can't even focus enough to read!" His palm came down hard on the table, startling them both.

A corner of her mouth curled upward. "If you are finding the forced inactivity to be too taxing, I can certainly sedate you again."

"No! Please don't. I hate feeling so clouded, and the sedation only makes it worse." His eyes suddenly shone with tears.

"I know. I know." She touched his cheek tenderly, and wiped the tears from his eyes. "And your emotions are heightened because of the injury. But right now your job is to heal. That is the best way you can help all of us. Your head and your vision should start to clear in another day or two."

"I suppose. But I am most unhappy with the current circumstances."

"As am I, my love."

"How is George?"

Julia glanced sadly at her other patient, who had drifted back to sleep. "He's very ill, William. He's nearly as ill as I've ever seen anyone." She picked up a cloth from the edge of the desk, and began to twist it. "His fever isn't coming down, and the wounds on his arm are most worrisome."

William nodded, and she continued, glad for a confidant. "I don't know whether the care I can provide for him on my own is what he needs or deserves. I would feel much more comfortable if he were being looked after by someone who specializes in medicine rather than surgery. And what I wouldn't give for a nurse to help with his elimination and hygiene! Fond as I am of George Crabtree, the bedpan requires a sort of intimacy I had never hoped to have with him."

William nearly choked: he had not thought about what the use of the bedpan would entail. Julia continued, matter-of-factly. "Although it isn't as if he has had to use it very much at all, and that is another matter for concern. His kidneys and bowels are not working as they should. The perspiration from the fever is dehydrating him faster than I can get liquid into him, and the morphine, the dehydration, and the lack of activity have quite constipated him. I fear that even if the infection subsides quickly, his convalescence will take some time."

William regarded George sadly as the younger man shifted and moaned quietly. His sleep was a restless one. "Sometimes he thinks he's in Newfoundland, and I'm one of his aunts," Julia said softly. "I had to stop him from trying to clean out the fireplaces in the rectory." She turned to her husband. "Honestly, William, I'm worried sick about him. Please don't make me have to worry any more about you. Please go back to bed. Don't make you beg you."

William's resolve vanished in the face of his wife's persuasion. "Very well," he said, chagrined. "I suppose the darkness will be more comfortable." He rose slowly, and began to make his way back to the bedroom, but not before he drew his beloved toward him and kissed her tenderly. She gladly welcomed the embrace. They stood for a few moments in each other's arms, breathing in unison, each taking comfort in the touch of the other.

Julia finally broke away as gently as she could. "I have to feed George." William kissed her one more time, and then he was gone.

George was asleep again, and his face shone with sweat. Before she fed him, Julia took his temperature and was distressed to find it had climbed back to 105.6˚. _No!_ She returned to the kitchen to retrieve the meadowsweet extract and the willow bark powder, and mixed some of both into the cup of Mellin's Food she had already prepared. She sat down next to George to feed it to him. She called his name, and he awakened at the touch of her cool hand.

His eyes were bright with fever. "Aunt Azalea said I should stay home from school today. She said I'm ill. But I can't miss my mathematics examination! I've been studying for it, and I can't make it up!"

Julia sighed as she brought the cup to his lips. "It's all right, George. There's no school today. The fever has you confused. Drink this, it will help you feel better. When you've finished I'll get you some apple sauce. You must eat."

"Are you sure there's no school?" he asked earnestly. "I was certain the examination was today. Master Parsons was quite clear that there would be only one chance to sit the exam, and it's 50% of our marks for the term."

"I'm quite sure, George. It's all right. There's no school. I promise."

George, hearing the words and her soothing tone, relaxed and began to drink from the cup she held for him. "That's right, George, drink up. It's all right. You can stay here with me. I'll look after you."

* * *

Margaret returned at lunchtime with a basket of artfully cut, multilayered sandwiches of thinly sliced cucumber and home-cured ham. The basket also contained homemade pickles and chutneys, freshly baked biscuits, cheeses, and crisp apples and pears, and there was a large bouquet of fresh flowers laid across the top. Julia put down the cloth she was using to bathe George and headed toward the door as soon as she heard the knock, but Margaret was already climbing back into a taxi— _not the streetcar? How unusually extravagant for her_ —before Julia was able to gesture her thanks.

She considered the flowers as she arranged them in a vase. They were beautiful, and very fresh. _That's a remarkably large bouquet_ , she mused. _I wonder if Thomas sent them to her._ As soon as she let herself think the idea, she knew it was true. _Oh, Margaret._

George's fever spiked one more time as the day ticked by. Julia wanted to get him back into a tepid bath, but decided against trying to wrangle him on her own. Instead, she continued with the few measures she had at hand to try to bring his temperature down: swabbing him down with cool water, administering the antipyretics, and getting as much fluid into him as she could. The hours passed slowly, Julia fretting no end about whether there was anything else she could do, frustrated that George's constant need for care prevented her from working on the analysis of the pathogen. _What type of infection is this? Is there any way to fight it other than what I am doing?_

At about four o'clock the telephone rang. It was Miss Hart, calling with what could be another clue. She had analyzed the bloodstains on Constable Crabtree's tunic and union suit, and found blood of two different types. It seemed the constable had not been the only one who bled during the unfortunate encounter with Mr. Price. Julia thanked her, and gave her a brief update on the status of the household, wishing she had better news. She rang off only reluctantly, glad to hear someone else's voice.

She returned to George's side, and sat down to watch him sleep. The usually ruddy man was nearly the same colour as the sheet. A fine sheen of perspiration coated him— _good, that means he's not completely dehydrated_ —and he lay silent and motionless, dark circles under his eyes. Julia clasped his hand while she ruminated on Miss Hart's finding.

_Two blood types. Two people. So Mr. Price was bleeding, and he bled on an open wound on George. Could that have been the mechanism for transmission of the illness?_

_Why, yes! That's got to be it. Mr. Price was bleeding when he attacked and injured all those poor souls on Cherry Street, as well. And neither William nor I am ill, even after such close contact with George… it just makes sense. Yes. That has to be how it's spread._

She telephoned Clarence to let him know of Miss Hart's findings, and her own theory about how the patients had become ill. She suggested that since the risk of transmission was so low, he might lift the quarantine. He was dubious: it was his responsibility to maintain public health, and so he would err on the side of caution in every circumstance. One could not afford to make mistakes when there were hundreds if not thousands of lives potentially at risk. So: the quarantine would remain in effect.

As for Julia's theory, well, he had only glancing familiarity with the theory of blood typing—Landsteiner, was it, who had come up with it?—and he would have to investigate. _Of course you will, Clarence. You certainly wouldn't be able to trust the findings or intuition of two_ women _, would you?_ At the end of the call, she put the phone down and quietly seethed.

Margaret's evening delivery was equally rushed, and the meal quite lavish. There were chicken timbales, three kinds of impeccably cooked vegetables, a pudding, another loaf of bread, a crock of fresh butter, and more fruit, plus a kedgeree for the morning. _Margaret is extremely generous,_ Julia thought as she served up plates for herself and William, _but this is too much. I'm going to have to telephone her in the morning._

Julia spent the last few hours of the day, and the rest of the night, in the armchair next to George to watch his fitful sleep. Each time he stirred, she would sponge him down, change his compress, inject some more morphine, or hold one concoction or another to his lips as he slipped in and out of delirium.

Now and then he was lucid, nearly begging for an extra blanket to help him stop shivering. "I'm so cold," he shuddered, again and again, until the drugs could take him. "I'm so cold." The fear and misery in his eyes nearly brought her to tears.

_Hold on, George. Hold on._


	6. September 2, Day Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot happens in this one.

Julia's morning was remarkably similar to the one before: wake up stiff and sore in the armchair, after only a couple of hours' sleep. Check and record George's temperature and put a fresh compress on his forehead, dose him with some morphine for the pain of the infected wound, open the door to collect the day's newspapers. Put on the kettle and make some toast; mix up some Mellin's Food and willow bark and meadowsweet tea for George. Check on William and take him some breakfast. Get back to George to prop him up and wake him enough to feed him. Change his bandage, sponge him down, give him sips of tea.

William was in better spirits—his headache had eased, his vision was less blurred, and his thoughts were not quite so slow and disjointed. Julia tried to take solace in his improved condition, because George's was worse.

George was still dehydrated, his fever stubbornly hovering above 105˚ without the tea, and he was spending more time delirious than not. His most common delusion remained that he was still a boy at the rectory in Newfoundland, under the care of his many aunts; it was only rarely that he recognized Julia as Julia. His eyes were still glazed and his skin was dry and fiery to the touch. Wherever he believed he was, he was exhausted, and he _hurt_. The morphine injections brought temporary relief, but as each dose faded away, his whole body ached, and his arm felt like someone was at it with a lit torch.

Julia kept trying to give him sips of the tepid, bitter tea. He was increasingly irritated by her attentions. _I don't want any more tea. Why does she persist in pouring it into me?_ He tried to resist, but was displeased to find that his arms and head refused to do anything. It took everything he had just to lie there. He felt the room disappearing around him.

Julia put the cup down, and called to him. "George? George! Are you with me?" He was so drained by the fever and the pain that he could not summon the effort to respond. He lay still, his eyes closed, his mouth half open. Julia dipped her hand in the basin and laid a cool, wet palm on his cheek. "Constable Crabtree. Wake up!" She picked up his right arm. It was limp. "George!" She was becoming alarmed.

She checked his pulse. It was too slow. She made a fist and apologized under her breath before she pressed her knuckles into his sternum and rubbed firmly. He stirred, and whimpered. _Not coma, then. At least not yet._

"Let me see your arm," she said, unwrapping the gauze bandage. The sight of the wounds made her gasp before she could catch herself: the red streaks were even angrier, and the four puncture wounds had coalesced into a single, blackening abscess the size of a fifty-cent piece. The bandage was sticky with pus, and the skin around his entire upper arm was bright red and swollen taut. She palpated it gently and he flinched again. "Oh, _George_ ," she whispered.

 _At least I can cut this. Can't slice a fever_. There it was: the morgue humour, like an old friend. How often it had enabled her to detach enough to do her job. _Surgery I can handle. At least, I can if whatever's in George's blood doesn't get me, too._

* * *

Julia was on the telephone again, her tone increasingly tense. William's curiosity had got the better of him, and he felt sufficiently recovered that he refused to be useless a moment longer. He was once again out of bed. Wearing his dressing gown and slippers, he was shuffling out of the bedroom when Julia's words stopped him in his tracks.

"I can remove the dead tissue, and that will halt the spread of the necrosis, but there are early signs of sepsis. His blood pressure is low, and his breathing is fairly rapid. The infection has spread throughout his body, and I've nothing here to help him." Her voice rose in frustration.

 _What!_ William was despondent. _Necrosis? Sepsis!_ He was no doctor, but he had read enough in the medical journals to know that septic patients did not usually recover.

There was a long pause as Julia took in what she was hearing. William watched her blanch, and her eyes grow wide. "Well, that would certainly be another of the least desirable outcomes. But we must obviously be equipped for it. I trust you will send the appropriate instrument, and join me in hoping it will not be needed as it was for your patient?"

A pause. "Of course I will establish a protocol for handling any excised tissue and bloodied waste." William saw her roll her eyes. "Should I plan to keep it here until the end of the quarantine, or would you prefer to arrange for it to be brought to a laboratory?" Another pause, longer this time. "Of course the highest standards of disinfection and sterilization will need to be maintained… yes, Clarence, I'm aware. Yes, I know. Thank you." She swallowed. "Yes, I will arrange for the necessary equipment to be picked up, and as soon as it arrives I shall operate. Thank you." Another pause, another clipped "thank you," and she hung up.

"What have you, my love?" William's voice came from much closer than she expected.

"William!" She jumped a bit, finally noticing him in the doorway. "You startled me."

He walked toward her, still a little unsteady, and exhaled slightly on reaching her. He took her hands in his and gazed at her tenderly. She lowered her eyes for a moment, and then smiled. "It's good to see you up and about. But you still ought to be resting."

"Nonsense. You just said George needs surgery. You need help."

His gaze was intense, his directness disarming. She _did_ need help: it would be virtually impossible to perform a surgical procedure, no matter how minor, on her own, especially with such a pressing need to contain any potential infection. She was torn about whether to argue with him, or accept his offer: George's life could be at stake. She took a deep breath. "Tell me, and be honest: are you well enough?"

Now William was disarmed. He hesitated for a moment, but did not look away. "The headache has almost completely subsided. I've not felt any nausea in at least 48 hours. My balance is still slightly questionable, but with effort or some minimal support I can remain steady. My vision is still slightly blurred, and light is still painful, but I believe I have come up with a way to darken the lenses of a pair of spectacles so I can tolerate the brightness. It shouldn't take long." He took her hands, and looked her straight in the eye. "Julia. You need me. I need to help you. Let me."

 _Oh, William._ She was sorely tempted to accept the offer, but she was still concerned about him. His physical symptoms were diminishing but certainly not gone, his cognitive abilities remained slower than normal, and his emotional state was still quite precarious. She thought she had heard him crying in the bedroom while she was occupied with George. She did not know how well he would manage attending surgery on his gravely ill best friend, particularly in light of what Clarence had told her.

She weighed the options. _Can I do this myself? I must be realistic._ The fatigue was catching up with her, and she had started to worry about whether it would lead to carelessness or negligence that would harm George. She hated to admit it, but he was right: she needed help. It seemed that taking William up on his offer was the only option.

Julia gripped his hands. "Very well, then. You are, as usual—but not always!—infuriatingly correct. I accept." He took her in his arms and pulled her toward him; she sank against his chest gratefully. "William Henry Murdoch, I am so very glad for you," she told him, and he gently kissed her head. She had help, and it was William. He was back at her side.

Still, Julia could not let herself be buoyant. The conversation with Clarence had shaken her. _Oh, William. If you only knew what you may be asking to see._

She supposed she would tell him what Clarence had mentioned only if it became absolutely necessary. William kissed her again, and murmured, "We are a team, Julia. You have looked after me, and now we will look after George."

* * *

William picked up a pair of spectacles and went to work at his desk, trying to find a substance for coating them with that would not rub off easily. As he worked, there was a knock on the door. Julia looked out the front window and saw Constable John Brackenreid departing; she waved to him, and he waved back. She took a moment to savour the relief of even seeing a familiar face from the outside world, and opened the door wide enough to bring in the crate he had delivered. She took it to the dining table, just wiped down with Cresol, and began to unpack it.

Doctor Forbes and his staff had been thorough: it seemed like half the hospital's linens and dispensary were now in front of her. There were bottles of ether and chloroform, and a Clover's inhaler to administer general anaesthesia. A few more phials of morphine and a new set of syringes. A packet of surgical instruments. A blood pressure monitor. Gauze, cotton swabs large and small, sterile cloths, drapes, hospital gowns for George, two surgical gowns, and a dozen pairs of latex gloves. Needles and silk thread for sutures. Mouthwash for George after the surgery. Everything was meticulously wrapped in clean white sheets. Underneath all the equipment for the surgery there were two hot water bottles, a length of coiled rubber tubing, several more needles in a metal case, and a few bottles of liquid. Julia lifted one of the bottles to examine it. Even though she had specifically requested it, a thrill went through her to hold the actual Ringer's solution in her hands: intravenous rehydration was a simple way to bring George at least some degree of near-instant relief.

One last look in the crate revealed a note that had fallen down along the side. It was from Clarence, and she read it aloud:

_Doctor Ogden:_

_My initial analysis of the pathogen that has infected your patient and those here at the hospital has determined that it is communicable through the exchange of bodily fluids, specifically blood. For transmission to occur, the blood of an infected person must make contact with an open wound on another. The duration of contact, quantity of blood, and size of such a wound have not yet been determined; I therefore advise the strictest sanitary precautions to avoid contagion when there is any exposure whatsoever to the blood of the patient under your care._

_Yours respectfully,_

_Clarence Morris, M.D._

"That's exactly what I told you, Clarence! I was the one who thought of that! How I do appreciate your thanks and warm wishes," she muttered acerbically.

"Julia?" asked William. "Is everything all right?"

"Clarence appears to be taking credit for my idea," she fumed. "I'm so _tired_ of this, William. It's happened to me so many times." She grimaced. "But I suppose it's pointless at the moment to get upset about it yet again. I must get to work on the protocol for handling any bloodied waste…"

William looked up. "Let me finish this, and then I can assist. I may have some small experience with procedures to minimize contamination."

Julia smiled. "Very good," she replied. She moved to George's bedside, picking up his hand and gently pinching the back of it. He did not react, but Julia spoke kindly to him anyway, in case he was conscious enough to hear. "George, part of the reason you feel so awful is that you are dehydrated. Your fever has been so high and you've been perspiring so much that it's been impossible to get enough fluids into you. I have some Ringer's solution here—it's a mixture of salts dissolved in water, to create an isotonic solution whose chemistry is similar to that of human blood… oh, never mind. All you need to know right now is that I'm going to put a needle into a vein in your arm, and let this fluid run directly into your bloodstream. You should feel much better just about immediately."

She spread one of the towels from the hospital onto a corner of William's desk, to have a clean place to work. The Ringer's needed to be warmed: cold fluids delivered intravenously could cause shock. While Julia put the kettle on to fill a hot water bottle, William studied George's sickbed and the area around it, and began to test arrangements of oilcloths and drapes. Once the water bottle was ready, Julia wrapped it around the bottle of Ringer's solution, and secured it with a length of twine from William's desk. Donning an apron and a pair of the gloves, she unwrapped the tubing, attaching one end to the mouth of the bottle of Ringer's, and the other to one of the intravenous needles. She clamped the tube close to the needle, placed the whole apparatus on the table, and picked up a swab and a bottle of iodine. She swabbed George's right arm carefully, just inside his elbow, then picked up the needle and gingerly slid it into his vein. He hissed a little, and she apologized as she lifted the Ringer's into the air to let its contents rush into the tube. She placed the bottle on the shelf above George's bed, and removed the clamp.

As soon as the fluid began to flow into him, George's eyes shot open and he caught his breath properly for what felt like the first time in months. The relief he felt, at least on one front, was overwhelming. He lay still while the fluid spread throughout his body, relishing the feeling of everything bursting back to life like the Nile Valley after the annual flood. A film of sweat covered him almost instantly.

A loud, low, guttural moan of pleasure escaped him. Julia was taken aback by the sound and tittered in spite of herself—it was quite a ribald noise. _I know just how to make William do that_ , she thought mischievously, and then heard his scandalized voice in her head: _Julia!_ She giggled again, hoping George wouldn't notice.

A few short minutes later, George was more awake and alert than he had been in days, and he was full of questions.

_How long have I been here?_

Three days.

_Has anyone else taken ill?_

Yes, they are in hospital being looked after. We are quarantined here.

_Sir, why are you wearing those strange spectacles?_

William had been thinking about how to explain the shaded spectacles to George. He had finally settled on an explanation that, while technically accurate, would not overly distress the sick man. "I had a, a mishap a few days ago, and hit my head. Perhaps what they would call a pratfall in one of the vaudeville shows you're so fond of. I was concussed, and I am still finding bright light to be painful."

George's eyes widened. "Would you care to describe this, ah, this _mishap_ , sir?"

William's face crinkled in amusement as he thought about what George might conjure up in his wild imagination. Better to let him picture something ridiculous than to tell him what he—no, his _illness_ —had done. He smiled, and said, "No, George, no I would not." He paused for effect. "But I can certainly explain the process by which I darkened the lenses…"

The detective's subtle humour had exactly the intended effect. George grinned briefly at the thought of Detective William Murdoch throwing a pie, then winced and drew a quick breath. The agony of his arm was already overshadowing the relief from the Ringer's solution.

Julia recognized the signs of pain immediately. She spoke softly: "Your arm?" He nodded, and Julia continued. "It's badly infected, and you need some surgery. Good thing you have a surgeon right here." George managed a wry smile. "We're going to anaesthetize you so there's no risk of you moving or experiencing further discomfort while I operate. I'm hopeful that after you wake up you'll feel even better." George regarded her with some trepidation, but he trusted her completely. A corner of his mouth turned up in silent thanks.

William glanced at her quizzically – wasn't full anaesthesia unusual for such a simple procedure?—but the look she gave him in return was very clear: _I'll explain, but not now._ "William and I have some preparation to do. I'm going to give you a bit more morphine for the pain, and I need to make sure William understands some things, and then we will begin."

William watched Julia inject the morphine, flinching in sympathy with George when the needle penetrated his skin. _He already has a needle in him. Why would he need another?_ Perhaps this was a problem he could solve. _Some sort of apparatus attached to the rubber tubing connected to the bottle of Ringer's solution, to provide a port for other medications needing to be administered intravenously? Or perhaps just disconnecting the tubing for a moment to connect the syringe to the needle…_

Julia interrupted his brief reverie with a firm "There," as she recapped the syringe and placed it on a sheet spread on the dining table. George visibly relaxed as the drug took hold, and William felt himself breathe a little more easily.

"All right, William, we need to plan and conduct this procedure as quickly as possible. You will be the anaesthetist." His eyes widened in alarm. "Oh, don't worry. I'll get Nurse Sullivan on the phone, and she'll explain everything."

* * *

The preparation for the surgery took over an hour. They worked around George as he drifted in and out of sleep, muttering now and then about Nina and what he wanted to do with her tomorrow in Paris. Julia disinfected the area around the bed once again, and put some bowls into a pot of water to boil on the stove. William carefully arranged drapes and oilcloths to contain any mess. Julia did indeed telephone Nurse Sullivan, who required quite a thorough explanation of the situation that necessitated entrusting an entirely untrained layperson with such a delicate process as anaesthesia.

Although she was sceptical, the nurse finally agreed to speak with William to provide a basic introduction to the process, as well as strict instructions about amounts and timing of administration. She was especially adamant that there was to be _no bag_ on the Clover's inhaler.[i] Finally, she stressed the importance of monitoring the patient's respiration, pulse, and blood pressure closely throughout the entire procedure, and discontinuing the anaesthetic immediately should any of these drop below a specified threshold. William, who had taken notes throughout the call, repeated everything back to her until she was satisfied; she insisted that she receive word as soon as the surgery was finished. William agreed, and thanked her several times before putting the telephone down.

He was uncharacteristically anxious. This was Julia's bailiwick, not his, and although his theoretical knowledge of medicine was considerable, he knew that theory was no substitute for practice. While he had been on the telephone, Julia finished preparing a tray of surgical tools, mixing a solution of mouthwash for George's dry mouth after the surgery, and changing into a surgical gown. She held a gown out for William as well; he donned it, and hung a stethoscope around his neck. He would need it to monitor George's heart rate and blood pressure.

Julia shifted George to the left side of the bed so his arm could hang off it, his wrist supported by a disinfected and draped umbrella stand. William had suggested the arrangement to ease her access to the wound site and to minimize blood and other discharge on the sheets. William also positioned a wide, deep laundry tub on an oilcloth directly under the area of incision, for Julia expected the surgery to be quite bloody, especially given the anticoagulant properties of the willow bark tea.

George was only dimly aware of what was happening around him. The morphine had dulled the searing pain in his arm, but it had also dulled his faculties, and it was hard to make sense of anything. Was Nina here? Or had that been Aunt Nettle who kept wiping his fevered brow? She had always taken such good care of him when he was ill. And was that the detective's voice he heard? Why was he here?

Julia drilled William on how to measure pulse and respiration until she was confident his readings were accurate. She wrapped the blood pressure monitor around George's upper right arm, and instructed William to practice checking it, once, twice, three times. Finally, they were ready to begin.

Both William and Julia washed their hands thoroughly with carbolic soap, and donned the latex gloves. Julia spoke soothingly to their sleepy patient as William measured out equal parts of ether and chloroform, and poured them into the inhaler. "George, we're going to put you under anaesthesia now. Take some deep breaths when William tells you to. We're going to take good care of you."

The inhaler was ready, and William waited for the cue from Julia. She nodded. He felt as if he should get some sort of permission from their patient—he was literally going to be holding the man's life in his hands. "George?" he said quietly, and locked eyes with his friend.

George's brow was furrowed in pain, and his eyes were glazed from the morphine, but for a moment he was lucid, and recognized his friends. He knew Detective Murdoch well enough to understand exactly what he was asking, and of course he trusted the man with his life. He was frightened but resolved. "Yes, sir. _Please._ "

"Very well, then." William took a deep breath himself, and then placed the mask over George's nose and mouth, laid his stopwatch on the table, and pressed the crown to start it. "Breathe, George," he told his friend. "Deep breaths. All you need do is lie there and breathe."

The next five minutes crawled by while William slowly moved the indicator on the inhaler, a tiny fraction of a turn each time, from 1 to 3, the maximum. Every second time he checked George's respiration, pulse, pupils, and blood pressure—he could practically hear Nurse Sullivan's voice repeating the instructions to him.

While he worked, Julia reviewed aloud everything she knew about the anatomy of the upper arm and shoulder: every bone, muscle, tendon, ligament, lymph node, artery, vein, and nerve. After this recitation she began talking herself through the procedure. _Disinfect the area. Use a scalpel to drain the abscess and cut out the dead tissue. Cut out any epithelial lining formed inside it. Inspect the wound to ensure all infected tissue is gone._ She paused, and took a deep breath. Would she say it out loud? No. She continued.

_Clean the wound thoroughly with saline. Pack the wound with gauze as necessary, to wick out the rest of the discharge over the next several days. Apply an appropriate dressing. Place the used instruments in the pan of water to be boiled on the stove. No sutures until it is clear that the threat from infection is past._

As he listened, William held the mask with the indicator wide open at 3, and continued counting George's breaths and heartbeats. If anyone had inquired, Julia would have told them her monologue was for William's benefit—the more her assistant knew about the anatomy and the procedure, the better. But she knew she was also trying to calm herself. She was running on very little sleep, and the gravity of the situation was weighing heavily on her. There were good reasons why there were such fierce debates about whether it was ethical to treat one's loved ones.

"That's five minutes with maximum anaesthesia," said William, pushing the crown on his stopwatch once again. He turned the dial on the inhaler down to just between 2 and 3 and lifted George's eyelid yet again, while Julia made a fist and once again rubbed George's sternum vigorously. Nothing. George was quite deeply insensible. William blessed himself.

Julia swabbed iodine over the area around the infection, picked up a scalpel, and made the first incision. The trapped fluids burst out in a rush, splashing into the basin. William was so startled he nearly jumped.

The procedure was brief; however, as she had feared, it was also very bloody, since she had to go quite deep to remove all the dead tissue and the new skin cells that had formed to line the abscess. She wanted to leave no chance that it would reoccur.

William was certainly not at all squeamish, but today he found himself unusually disturbed by the sight and sound of what was dripping out of George into the basin on the floor. _I_ _suppose this must be easier when the man on the table is not like a brother_ , he mused.

He was so focused on counting George's heartbeats that he hardly noticed when Julia withdrew the scalpel, positioned a retractor in the incision so she could peer into it, and mouthed a quick _Thank you_ to he knew not whom.

Finally, no more than twenty minutes after she had begun, Julia was finished. The dead and infected tissue was excised, the wound irrigated, and a bundle of gauze packed inside. William turned the indicator back down to zero, and lifted the inhaler off George's face.

All the lines that pain of various kinds had etched into it were gone. George looked as peaceful and relaxed as William and Julia had ever seen him. _He really is quite an attractive man,_ thought Julia. She had to stop herself from picking up his hand and squeezing it—there was still a lot to clean up before she and William could remove their protective clothing and touch anything without gloves again.

* * *

William's preparations of the improvised operating theatre had been entirely worthwhile: his arrangement of the drapes, the basin, and the oilcloths had managed to catch every drop of blood, and they did not even have to change the oilcloth and sheet on which George lay. _It's almost as if William has an intimate knowledge of the physics of blood spatter_ , she thought wryly.

Julia took over sitting at George's head to monitor him. She picked up the swab soaking in the mouthwash, and gently wiped it around the inside of his slackened mouth so it would not be painfully dry when he awoke. Meanwhile, William began to clean up. He washed George's exposed arm and hand with carbolic soap, carefully avoiding the gauze hanging out of the incision. He took off his surgical gown and helped Julia out of hers, rolling them up with the rest of the bloodstained linens, and placed them back inside one of the white sheets. The whole bundle went back into the crate, destined for the hospital laundry, at least when the quarantine was over. The surgical instruments—the scalpel, a set of longnose forceps, a pair of surgical scissors, a small retractor, and a saw—went into a large pot of water on the stove to be boiled. _A saw?_ William wondered.

The excised tissue rested in a small basin. Julia would begin to analyse it after she had taken some time to collect herself, drink some tea, and report back to Doctor Forbes. The gloves came off inside out, and were laid on top of the laundry bundle in the crate. To be sure they had been thorough in cleaning up the blood, William dimmed the lights and shone an ultraviolet light around the bed. To his relief, nothing glowed.

William raised the lights again, and stood for a moment regarding Julia as she sat vigil over the unconscious George. Finally William spoke his question aloud: "Why did we anaesthetize him? Wouldn't such procedures usually be done simply with morphine?"

Julia paused, clearly uncomfortable. "Yes, they would. But I didn't know how deep the wound was, and I feared involvement of the, uh, of the humerus." William gazed at her curiously with his impossible brown eyes.

"The bone? You were worried the wound was that deep?"

"I was. I was fearful that the initial injury had somehow… ah… I was afraid the infection had gone to the bone." She could hardly speak of what she had feared.

William's inquisitive expression did not change. "What would that have meant?" he asked, suddenly fearful of the answer.

"Oh, there's no use trying to equivocate," Julia blurted. "One of the patients at the hospital lost a hand to the infection, because the wound went to the bone. Clarence warned me that I might have to cut off George's arm. Why did you think there was a bone saw on the tray?"

William blinked, shocked. He opened and closed his mouth a few times while he tried to process what she had said. "I, uh… oh. Oh, Julia. Amputation! At the _shoulder_? Why didn't you say so? My God!"

"I couldn't. Would you have been able to get through that so calmly if you had known?"

A wild mix of emotion churned through him. _No,_ he thought. _Not right now, you wouldn't have. You cried this morning when you saw all the deliveries._ His anger flared nonetheless: "I wouldn't have known what to do! You didn't explain!"

Julia stiffened; she had been fearing this moment ever since she had spoken with Clarence. "It's a very simple procedure and I made sure to have all the necessary equipment at hand. I made a professional decision not to disclose the risk to you; it would have been too distracting for you and I couldn't have relied on you to remain calm. I would have explained what to do had it become necessary. Fortunately it wasn't. Let's not discuss it further." She took a breath, and looked at George. "It's almost time for him to wake up, and he is still whole." She leaned over and kissed her husband on the forehead.

Julia's kiss. It always gave him pause. He was angry about her deception, but he concluded that at the moment, it would not be worthwhile to argue his point. It had been 20 minutes since he had turned off and removed the inhaler, and the post-surgical cleanup was done. George would be back with them any minute now. He would discuss it with her later.

They waited at his bedside. Julia picked up his hand and squeezed it gently, and whispered his name. A minute or two later, George began to stir, turning his head from side to side slightly. Finally his eyes fluttered open, and he looked dazedly at Julia and William. He took a moment to orient himself, then finally, he spoke.

"You fixed it," he breathed. "It's not on fire anymore." He started to cry. "Thank you, Julia."

Julia became teary as well, and she didn't dare look at William. "Oh, George. It's so good to see you looking better." She was finding it very difficult to maintain the professional distance that she usually kept. She swallowed, then continued. "We won't know that it's 'fixed' until your fever is gone, but I'm so glad I could help. Oh, _George._ " She gripped his hand again, elated beyond words that it—and he—was still there to squeeze back.

* * *

William attended to George, swabbing his face and chest with a damp cloth and keeping an eye on his vitals, and listened while Julia made the afternoon's telephone calls. She reported on the success of the surgery to Doctor Morris, Doctor Forbes, and Nurse Sullivan. The latter two congratulated her warmly and sent best wishes to the constable, while Clarence noted gruffly that the two of his five patients whose wounds had also required surgery were resting comfortably. _Of course they are, Clarence._

The two doctors compared notes about approaches to the illness, with Julia suggesting a more direct one. Perhaps there was someone to be found who had survived the illness, and whose blood could be analysed for antibodies similar to what von Behring and Shibasaburo had found to combat diphtheria. Perhaps if an antiserum could be developed—

Clarence interrupted, unconvinced. He spoke at length about how diphtheria was an entirely different sort of infection, and eventually concluded by arguing that any fruitful analysis of whatever this illness was would surely be too time-consuming and unpredictable to be of any benefit to those who were currently ill.

Julia was starting to tire of his stolid insistence that the fever should be left to burn the infection away. _You've not changed at all, Clarence_ , thought Julia. _You always were an old stick-in-the-mud_. George and all the other patients were growing weaker, and Clarence had mentioned that the five people under his care were losing weight. Julia could not shake the notion that choosing to do so little for them was choosing to do them harm.

Miss Hart had news as well: a Doctor Matthews was on his way from Montreal to conduct the autopsy on Elias Price, and would be doing so immediately after his arrival. Julia asked that Miss Hart have him telephone her before he proceeded; she would advocate for the younger woman then.

Miss Hart inquired into the constable's condition and the success of the meals. Julia expressed her deepest gratitude; although George was not particularly enjoying such a bland diet, it seemed to be quite suitable to his current needs. Miss Hart agreed to send along three more days' worth, and Julia thanked her again.

The day's conversation with Thomas was discouraging. He phoned her, not she him, and he sounded subdued, reacting hardly at all to the news of George's surgery. He had little to say about the happenings at the station house: the coal ship was expected back into port the next day, and Watts had a call in to the public health department in Erie to see if the illness had wreaked any havoc there. Julia asked how he was, and whether he had heard from Margaret. He wished her a good evening, and put down the phone. _Oh, Tom,_ she thought sadly.

Julia put the call she had been dreading off to the end of the day: she was still unsure how to ask Margaret to bring more quotidian fare without offending her. When she finally telephoned, there was no answer; shortly thereafter, Margaret arrived with baskets containing another sumptuous dinner, and again she fled too quickly for even a wave. Julia was contrite about not telephoning her earlier, and she was starting to feel embarrassed.

As she and William ate, she reflected on the awkwardness of the situation. _Not that I mind the delicious food, but how can she afford this? I really must ask her to tone it down. Although tonight's dinner was so delectable that I must confess I'm glad I didn't do so today!_

* * *

The first part of the night passed uneventfully, Julia still stationed in the armchair next to George's bed. George awoke only once, at around 2:30am, for some more morphine and willow bark tea, as well as a mild sedative. Julia fed him some apple sauce and peptonised milk as well, and carefully rolled him onto his side.

William came into the kitchen as she was putting the milk jug back into the icebox, and he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and turned her toward him. "I'll sit with him. You go get some proper sleep. You've not been to bed in days." She looked at him affectionately, and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

"Nonsense, William. I'm fine," she began, but he held up a hand.

"Julia. I will come and awaken you at the first sign of trouble. Please go to bed. We all need you to be well rested." He took her hand, and stared at her solemnly.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "You still need rest! And what if his fever spikes again, or…" She trailed off.

"I will handle it, and if I cannot, I will wake you," he repeated. Julia finally read his expression, which spoke volumes. He was implacable, and she was exhausted. It dawned on her that this was clearly not a debate she could win, or even one that she particularly wanted to.

"All right. I suppose I could use an hour or two in the bed. You _promise_ you will come and get me at any sign of trouble?"

"Yes, of course. And as for me, one darkened room is as good as another. I will watch him. You: sleep."

"I suppose so. But I need to show you some things first. I am keeping careful records of his heart rate and respiration, and his temperature, and the times and amounts of administration of the morphine and antipyretics. Everything is listed right here." She gestured at the pen and paper on the table. "If he needs the bedpan please don't dispose of the contents; I should like to measure them, and have them available for analysis if need be. I just changed the compress on his forehead, but you may wish to change it again if it becomes too warm. Miss Hart's schedule for feeding him is on the table in the kitchen, and her meals for him are organized in the icebox, although I should be awake in plenty of time to give him his breakfast." Her speech was becoming more and more rapid, and William recognized her rising pitch as a sign of distress.

William cupped her cheek, and interrupted her with a soft kiss. "You're getting upset. You don't want to leave him."

"No, William. No, I do not." His calm and compassion took the wind out of her sails. She was trying to collect herself when a loud sob escaped her, seemingly from nowhere. She was powerless to stop it, and her tears began in earnest. This time, though, there was someone to hold her as she wept. William embraced her as she shook in his arms.

"I'm frightened for him, William. And I'm so tired."

"I know, my beloved. I know how hard you have worked to make sure that we have had our rest. You need yours. I will be with him, and I will fetch you if he needs you. You can sleep now."

Julia was too exhausted to resist his kind, persistent persuasion any longer. William ushered her to the bedroom and helped her out of his trousers and into the bed. It felt heavenly, and she was asleep nearly the moment her head hit the pillow. For the first time in four days, her sleep was a deep one.

* * *

[i] C. Hamilton Whiteford, M. R. C ., L R C. ., Hon. Anaesthetist to the South Devon and East Cornwall Hospital, noted in a letter to the editor of _The Lancet_ (1901, February 9), "Chloroform pure or in a mixture must never be given with the bag on, as this is practically a closed method, and to give chloroform by such a method is simply tempting Providence."


	7. September 3, Day Four

Julia rolled over languidly, and looked at the clock. It read just after ten o'clock, jolting her fully awake. _What? No! George needs me! How could William let me sleep so long? Why didn't I set an alarm? What if William has blacked out again? How could I be so lazy? I shouldn't have let him convince me to go to bed! Augh!_ She barely pulled William's trousers back on before she rushed out to the great room, her heart racing.

William, still in his shaded spectacles, sat in his dressing gown on the edge of the armchair, spoon-feeding George bites of soft boiled egg and finely minced meat. Julia nearly shouted. "William! How could you! How could you let me sleep for so long!"

He and George both turned to Julia with some surprise, their expressions mild. George spoke first, with some effort: "It's all right, Julia. He's looked after me quite well."

Julia surveyed the room in disbelief. The table was tidily organized, the kitchen was clean, and there was a fresh bottle of Ringer's attached to the tubing that snaked toward George's right arm. George himself was propped up on pillows, still looking quite unwell, but far better than he had before the surgery. "But… the wound?" Julia demanded. "Is it draining well? Have you changed the gauze? And what is his temperature? Have you given him the antipyretics? How long since his last dose of morphine? Any elimination yet today? How is his appetite?"

William put down the bowl and spoon, and walked over to his wife. He held her hands, and interrupted her rapid-fire questions with a warm kiss. "Good morning, Julia. It's nice to see you too," he said, and smiled as George snorted quietly.

He cleared his throat. "The wound is draining nicely; I changed the gauze two hours ago. What I removed is in that sterilised jar over there, should you wish to analyse it. His temperature hasn't risen any higher than 103.5 since before the surgery, and it is 101.6 with both the willow bark and meadowsweet administered as directed, an hour and five minutes ago. I gave him the most recent dose of morphine at that time as well. I worked out a way to do it through the needle already in his vein, just before I replaced the bottle of Ringer's solution. He has passed water twice, once just after four o'clock and again just twenty minutes ago. Still no solid waste. I sterilised and labelled some jars to hold the samples, and they are there next to the laboratory equipment. Everything is recorded as you asked," he said, gesturing to the papers on the table, "although I must apologise for some of the penmanship; my eyesight is still not at its best."

Julia was amazed. She had come into the room gearing for a fight, but each thing William told her had taken a bit more wind out of her sails until all her anger was gone. "My goodness, William. I hadn't expected… Good heavens. I hardly know what to say."

"Oh, and one last thing," William said, and turned to the man in the bed. "George, how is your appetite?"

George was thoughtful for a moment, and finally replied. "Well, I'm eating, aren't I?"

Julia, caught completely off guard, burst out laughing. _Well, all right. I suppose I needed the sleep._

* * *

George did indeed show noticeable improvement since the surgery and the infusion of three bottles of Ringer's solution. His fever, while still too high, was out of the dangerous range, at least as long as he was properly medicated. He was mostly lucid, if somewhat addled from the morphine, and analysis of the samples William had collected from the bedpan indicated that his kidney function seemed to be returning to normal. All good news. Julia was satisfied enough by his progress that she donned gloves, disconnected his intravenous tube, and withdrew the needle from his arm.

Julia was uneasy about his digestion; morphine was notorious for slowing it down. Perhaps she would give him something in the morning to help move things along. The wound showed no sign of healing, but no hint of further infection, either. Things could be better, but they could also be much worse.

Julia's main concern was George's weakness. He could no longer sit up without assistance, and he was unable even to use a spoon independently for more than a few minutes at a time. He reported that each time the morphine wore off, his muscles ached and his joints hurt terribly. Carrying on a conversation for any length of time exhausted him. Julia made a mental note to contact her friend Daisy Maitland, who had trained as a masseuse in England, for her insights into how to restore George's muscle tone. If this decline continued, by the time the quarantine was over he would not even be able to stand.

She also worried about administering morphine over so many consecutive days, not just out of concern for his gut, but also out of fear that he would develop a tolerance and need higher doses. Not to mention the drug's highly addictive properties—the process of withdrawal could be extremely unpleasant. She was torn between wanting to decrease the dose, even slightly, and wanting to keep him as comfortable as she could, at least for the moment. Agitation did not contribute to healing, after all. She decided to begin tapering off each dose, and hoped that he would not notice the difference.

* * *

Margaret's delivery the previous evening had included fresh rolls and sausages, a fruit salad of peaches, plums, raspberries, and strawberries cooked in a brandy sauce, a selection of homemade jams and jellies, a container of _crème fraîche_ , and a basket of fresh eggs. William prepared breakfast – well, more of a brunch, now – for himself and Julia while Julia fussed over George, and then the two of them sat at the one uncovered part of the dining table for the meal.

"Mm, thank you, William. This is delicious," Julia said, picking up another forkful of the perfectly seasoned omelet.

"My pleasure," he answered. "Margaret sent some herbs packaged with damp cloths so they would stay fresh, and the relish is a concoction of tomatoes and beans from her own garden that she canned a few days ago."

She tilted her head slightly. "William, does it seem to you that the meals Margaret is sending are somewhat… extravagant?"

William snickered before he could catch himself. "Whatever do you mean? Surely you can't be talking about last night's seven-course dinner with _vol au vent_ appetizers and an entrée of braised stuffed quail?"

Julia smiled in spite of herself. "Perhaps. I confess I'm uncomfortable with such lavish provisions, especially since she insists that the Inspector maintain a separate residence at the moment, and that cannot be inexpensive. I've been debating ways to raise the issue with her. I certainly don't want to sound ungrateful."

"Of course not." He was pensive. "Perhaps you could tell her that looking after George is so all-consuming that we cannot give her food the appreciation it deserves – this isn't untrue, after all. Fine dining seems somehow… inappropriate in a makeshift hospital ward. And a seven-course meal takes considerable time to eat!"

Julia brightened. "Yes. Thank you, William, that is an excellent approach. Most diplomatic. I can tell her that we would like to be able to savour such delectable fare in less unpleasant, and, shall I say, clinical, circumstances." Her expression turned thoughtful, and she leaned toward William. "I find myself wondering just _why_ she feels it necessary to lavish such extravagant fare on us. My psychiatric training leads me to suspect this may be an attempt to send a message to Thomas somehow, or an effort to keep herself occupied so she can avoid thinking about him."

"Hm," he replied. "Now you have me wondering at the same thing." A sadness came over him. "So they're still not speaking."

"That's right, unless it's about bringing provisions to us. Perhaps I shouldn't have asked Tom to involve Margaret at all, although I imagine that would have left her most put out as well."

"I'm quite sorry to hear they're still at odds. I know they've had their differences in the past, but they've always been able to sort things out. I hope that remains true. I am fond of both of them," said William.

"As am I. If our situation were not as it is at the moment, I might call on each of them and speak in person. They have both been most reticent to discuss anything other than our current plight over the telephone."

William smiled thinly. "Julia. You have more than enough to manage here. The Brackenreids are both adults and can sort this out for themselves."

"Yes, I know they _can_ , William, but _will_ they?" She was slightly irritated. "They are both stubborn, emotional people. I might be able to offer support and counsel. Tom was there to support me after all that awfulness with Eva Pearce and then the great fire, and he has been your friend and mentor for many years."

"That he has," he agreed.

Julia continued. "And Margaret was most solicitous when she saw Régine Rivière draped all over you, and believed I had cause for concern. And all the effort she put into planning our wedding? They've looked after us."

"I concur. They certainly have. But it is not practical or feasible for you to intervene at the moment. You have your hands full here. All you can do is ask her to stop sending such lavish food."

"But what if doing so makes her feel better, William? What if this is how she is coping with her grief, and her anger?"

"Julia. Right now that is not your worry. Your worry is nursing George back to health. Everything else can wait." His words were firm, but his eyes, even from behind the spectacles, were full of compassion and care.

"You're right, William. Of course you're right. This house is our world for the next six days. But I can't stop thinking about them both."

* * *

Julia cleared the dishes away while, for the first time since the quarantine began, William telephoned the station house. Detective Watts sounded genuinely elated to hear his voice, and he had quite a lot to report. No one had taken ill at the station house, but Watts was bemused to tell Detective Murdoch that the cells were still unoccupied and under quarantine, under the order of Doctor Morris. _Of course_ , thought William. The coal ship on which Elias Price had worked had returned to port in Toronto, and the Department of Public Health had sent a small army to screen the crew and disinfect the ship, which had itself been declared a quarantine site as well.

Watts had procured a copy of the manifest, with a list of the crew members' names, and had been granted special access to the ship by the Public Health officer stationed there, at least as long as he wore a mask and gloves, did not touch anything, and changed clothes immediately after disembarking. (There were no active cases of the illness on board the ship, but Doctor Morris and his staff at Public Health were taking no chances.) The Public Health officer had recruited him to help with interviewing the crew to find out more about when and how Mr. Price might have been exposed to the illness. They had had to use the services of several different interpreters, and were in the process of comparing the accounts of the different men who had been on the ship with him.

William thanked the other detective, then remembered Julia's musings to Doctor Morris. "Have you learned of anyone who has recuperated from the illness? If so, Julia would like to speak with them. She has speculated that it may be possible to produce an antiserum from donated blood of a recovered patient."

"Now that is a fascinating idea," said Watts admiringly. "None of the men that I spoke to had been ill, but I did not interview everyone. I believe I remember hearing one of the gentlemen from Public Health mention that he had spoken with someone who had recovered from a brief fever. I shall ask, and report back to you."

"Thank you again, Detective. And let me say how much we appreciate your support. The past few days have been… difficult." William was sorry to put down the phone: he missed the contact with colleagues—with anyone, really—outside their four walls. The house, open and airy though it was, was starting to feel much too small.

* * *

Julia was now the one at the telephone—what would they have done without it this week? It was their lifeline, quite literally.

Before she made any calls, though, she decided to examine William, who was still not quite his usual self. His speech was occasionally delayed, and he winced when the light got too bright. The third time Julia noticed his hand move to the back of his head, she tested his vision—still a little blurred—and sent him back to bed for a nap. Healing requires sleep, she told him.

Miss Hart reported that the autopsy of Elias Price was complete, and Doctor Matthews had concluded that heart failure was the cause of death, perhaps brought on by his high fever. "I would certainly have concluded the same," she said archly, "had I been allowed to conduct the procedure."

Julia's first reaction was irritation— _I did everything I could for you. Please just let this one go. I can't take care of everyone right now!_ She paused before she spoke, reminding herself of the number of times she had been in situations similar to Miss Hart's: refused the chance to apply her skill, expertise, and competence, solely because of an aspect of herself that she could not change. _Patience, Julia._

"I'm sure you would have done it beautifully, Miss Hart, and I'm sorry that the current circumstances did not allow for you to do so. I did do my best to advocate for you, but there's only so much the male establishment is willing to hear, especially when it is only by way of the telephone."

"I understand, Doctor Ogden. Thank you for the support you were able to offer." Julia could not decipher the younger woman's tone, and finally decided not to even try. She would take the words at face value.

"And thank you, Miss Hart, for your steadfast support in this difficult situation. Your meticulous attention to providing for Constable Crabtree's nutrition has been most helpful, and appreciated. I don't know what I would have done for him without it."

"You are most welcome, Doctor Ogden. I will deliver further meals for him this evening. I do hope that at least in this area, my services will soon no longer be needed."

"As do I, Miss Hart. As do I."

* * *

Julia's next call was to Daisy Maitland, who was thrilled to hear from her, and to offer suggestions about how to rehabilitate George's weakened musculature. She offered a full consultation, and Julia took detailed notes. _I must send some flowers or take her to lunch in thanks_ , she thought.

Julia attended to George once more before she telephoned the hospital, dosing him with a bit more morphine and another cup of willow bark tea before she rolled him into a different position and waited the few minutes it took for him to drift off to sleep. The conversation with Clarence ended on a considerably less pleasant note than had the one with Miss Hart. Julia gave a full report on Constable Crabtree's condition, and Clarence agreed that his symptoms were consistent with what he was seeing in his patients on the quarantine ward. He was almost hostile to Julia's renewed suggestion of trying to develop an antiserum: given the quarantine and the absence of any further reports of cases, he saw no further risk of epidemic. He advocated instead for continued observation of the patients, so he could document the full progression of the highly unusual illness from the perspective of an epidemiologist.

Julia was furious. William, hearing her rising agitation, came from the bedroom to her desk and stood near her in support. He caught her gaze and shook his head: he knew she had built a considerable head of steam, and shouting was imminent. He wiggled his finger over the telephone hook and lifted an eyebrow. _No. Don't do it._

Julia bit her lip before she replied, her tone dripping with acid. "Well, thank you for the information, Doctor, I shall certainly give it the consideration it merits it in my treatment plan for my patient." William heard the subtle emphasis on "my" both times. "I shall of course notify you of any change in his condition, and I should be grateful for the same courtesy from you regarding your patients. Good day, Doctor Morris."

She rang off fiercely, nearly knocking the telephone over as she clapped the receiver back onto the hook.

"He doesn't agree with your approach, does he," William said dryly.

"What an utterly, completely, entirely exasperating _man_!" Julia sputtered, and slapped the desk hard with a stack of paper. William winced at the noise.

"What are you going to do?" He looked at her with all the love in the world, already knowing the answer.

"Whatever I have to, to help George. Even if this illness isn't fatal, it's wrong for him and the others to suffer a moment longer than they have to. If Detective Watts can find someone who has recovered, and convince him to donate some blood, of course I'm going to work on a serum. How could I not?"

William embraced her, and kissed her, gently at first, and then more insistently. "Julia, you are magnificent."

She kissed him back, and all at once, her entire body hummed with desire for his touch. "Do you remember how we used to share a bed? I miss that," she murmured huskily. He moved his hand to the small of her back, and nuzzled her ear.

"I miss it too. Do you think…" he glanced at the man in the bed.

"I believe he is quite asleep." The couple exchanged a meaningful look. Julia seized the detective by his shirt, and all but dragged him to the bedroom.

* * *

The last telephone call of the day was to Margaret, and Julia was grateful to have had the physical release from the very welcome interlude with William before what she knew would be a difficult conversation.

Margaret answered on the first ring. She sounded cheery, in a forced sort of way. "Why _hello_ , Julia, how nice to hear from you. I trust all is as well as it can be in your home, given the current unpleasant circumstances?"

"Why yes, thank you, Margaret. William's condition is much improved, and George is stable. I had to perform minor surgery yesterday to drain an infected wound on his arm, and he is still quite feverish, but he does not appear to be growing any worse."

"I suppose that's good news about Constable Crabtree, then, and you must be so relieved about your _husband_." Julia heard bitterness in Margaret's voice as she spoke the word.

"Indeed I am, and thank you for your concern. So far this has been quite the ordeal. I must say we are most grateful for the delicious meals you have been preparing."

"I'm quite pleased to hear that you've been enjoying them! I confess some of the dishes have been quite a stretch for me, although the caterers I work with in planning weddings have been quite helpful with suggestions and recipes. But think nothing of it; it's the least I can do."

Julia swallowed hard, and steeled herself. "Well, that's the thing, Margaret. I mean, the food has been marvellous; I just fear that it has been a little too… elaborate. You've quite outdone yourself, and I hate to say that we've just not been able to give it the attention it deserves. Looking after someone as ill as Constable Crabtree is quite time-consuming, and we've hardly had time to sit down for proper meals, let alone the lavish fare you've been so generously sending. I'm sorry to say a _vol au vent_ is not nearly so enjoyable after a night in the icebox!"

"Oh, dear. I'm terribly sorry to hear it." Margaret sounded stung, and was quiet for a moment. "I had hoped the meals would be appreciated."

"Of course they're appreciated! I can't tell you how grateful we are. It's just that… the current circumstances do not allow us to _enjoy_ them as much as we would like. We just can't do them justice. I find myself quite remorseful that your tremendous effort is wasted on us!"

"Wasted," said Margaret softly, and from the other woman's tone Julia knew she had used the wrong word. She felt slightly sick.

"Margaret," said Julia. "I don't want for a minute to suggest that we aren't grateful. We are deeply obliged to you for your thoughtfulness and your hard work. She heard Margaret sniffle. _Oh, dear._ "Could I… could I possibly suggest that lighter, simpler fare would be more… accessible to us right now, given George's plight? And surely it would be easier for you as well."

"Well, yes, I suppose it would." A stifled sob.

"Margaret, I hope I'm not being too forward if I ask you how you are. I know things between you and… the Inspector haven't been easy since he left for St. Mary's."

"I am quite _fine_ , thank you." Another muffled sob. "I've not wished to think about that man, or what he did. I've been too busy in the kitchen."

 _Oh_ , thought Julia. _Doctor Freud would likely deem all the cooking to be a form of sublimation. Preparing food is socially acceptable. Acting on the urges she likely feels toward the husband she sees as adulterous is… not._

"And we have certainly been fortunate to receive the fruits of your impressive labour. I'd like to suggest, though, that you do take some time for yourself, rather than showering us with such elaborate provisions when far simpler ones would do. And if you'd like to talk, my door is alway— well, I can't say my _door_ is open at the moment, but I am here to listen."

"That won't be necessary, thank you," said Margaret abruptly. "I will make this evening's delivery, of plainer fare, at six o'clock; thank you for notifying me of your concerns. Good day, Doctor Ogden." She rang off.

Julia replaced the receiver on the hook, gently this time, and for the next few minutes she sat at her desk, holding her head in her hands.

Margaret arrived, stone-faced, at six o'clock as promised, and was leaving hastily just as Miss Hart was arriving. Julia watched the two interact, and was torn between wanting to overhear their interaction, or continue hiding in the house. Mrs. Brackenreid appeared to be quite frosty toward Miss Hart, and when she was finished speaking, she nearly stormed off. Miss Hart looked nonplussed as she left a crate at the door and waved hello.

* * *

Half an hour later, the telephone rang. It was Margaret, telephoning to advise Julia that she was terribly sorry, but had to depart Toronto that evening for at least a week, to visit her sister in Grimsby. She would no longer be able to provide food, but she hoped Miss Hart would be able to accommodate them. She would be grateful for the return of the dishes and baskets as soon as the quarantine was lifted.

Julia exhaled sadly before she replied, thanking Margaret once again for her hard work and her kindness. Margaret rang off quickly, and that was that.

 _What a state she is in_ , Julia mused, trying to keep to a clinical perspective rather than letting herself get upset at how badly things had gone. _Perhaps the support of her sister will help soothe her._ William appeared behind her and, enveloping her in his arms, kissed the top of her head. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You were right to dread that call."

"Well, I suppose we have enough in the house now that we won't go hungry." She leaned into her husband's embrace. "Honestly, William, trying to soothe ruffled feathers outside our household is proving nearly as challenging as looking after matters here."

Dinner was a salad of leafy greens with hardboiled eggs, a tin of sardines, and a fresh loaf of bread, as well as a few more crisp apples and a block of cheddar cheese. Perfectly serviceable. Julia and William ate it in silence, and then Julia attended to an awakening, miserable George, while William went to bed. He would relieve her in the wee hours.


	8. September 4, Day Five

Julia was exhausted. She had been up until past three, monitoring George's vital signs and trying to calm him through what appeared to be some nightmarish delusions. For a time he was convinced he was still incarcerated, lying in agony with two broken ribs in the grim little jail infirmary after being beaten by another inmate. _He never mentioned that,_ she thought sorrowfully. _Poor, sweet George._

She would never voice them to anyone, but she had harboured some rather uncharitable thoughts over the years toward Simon Brooks. The child's decision to remain silent about killing his father had condemned George to the Don Jail for five months— _five months!_ —and robbed himself, his stepmother Edna, and George of the chance to be a family. Yes, Simon had been only eleven, but eleven-year-olds were capable of taking responsibility when they decided to, and Archibald's death had been accidental. Julia was still ruminating sadly on George's heartbreak ( _and it was one of so many!_ ) when William arrived for his shift and sent her to bed.

* * *

Julia had slept fitfully until the telephone jolted her awake just after seven, and was trying to doze back off when she heard William saying words she could scarcely believe.

"Wait," said William. "Am I correct in understanding that you have someone who has survived this illness and recovered fully? Without medical intervention? Good. Very good!"

She was electrified.

"Let me get Julia. She'll want to talk to you."

 _Yes! Yes I do!_ She rushed to the phone in her nightgown, nearly colliding with William as he came to wake her. She seized the receiver and wasted no time with the social graces.

"What is it, Detective Watts? Have you really found someone who has survived this?"

"Yes indeed," replied Detective Watts. "His name is Salvador D'Souza, and he is only very recently arrived in North America. He apparently originates from the Konkan region of southwestern India, from what we could gather. His English is basic bordering on nonexistent, and he speaks quite an unusual dialect. It has been a challenge to find a translator. Mr. D'Souza is quite a friendly man, seems a decent chap, but it is difficult to communicate with him."

"Detective, I need to make a request. I need a pint of Mr. D'Souza's blood."

"Detective Murdoch had mentioned that, yes," Watts replied.

Julia continued. "I believe there may be components in Mr. D'Souza's blood that can be extracted into an antiserum to be injected into Constable Crabtree and the other patients, to cure them of the illness. I don't know if you're familiar with the work of Emil von Behring and Kitasato Shibasaburo?"

"Oh, yes." Watts clearly recognized the names. "Dr. von Behring won the Nobel Prize five years ago for their work on a diphtheria antitoxin, if I recall."

"That's them. If my intuition is correct, the antiserum will cure the illness. We seem already to have arrested its spread, but George and the others need a remedy. Now I have enough equipment here to process the blood sample myself, to create the antiserum; what I need is the blood, no more than a single pint, donated willingly by Mr. D'Souza."

"Yes, of course. I will do everything I can to make sure that you can obtain it."

Julia almost allowed herself to feel a flicker of hope. "Now Detective, I… can't say as I have Doctor Morris's permission to do this, so I must ask that you keep this request as confidential as you can. I will take full responsibility for any outcome of this work."

"Understood, Doctor. So Mr. D'Souza must be informed of the great need, and convinced to donate. I assume Miss Hart can handle the collection of the sample?"

"Yes," said Julia. "I will speak to her. Please let me know as soon as possible of Mr. D'Souza's decision, and if he agrees, I would be most obliged if you could transport the sample here immediately."

"Of course, Doctor Ogden. This can't be an easy situation for you. Might I say that the constable and the detective are missed here?"

"We all miss everyone, Detective. When this is over, I should very much like to invite you for dinner as thanks for your support in this unfortunate situation. It sounds as if your work may ensure the recovery of Constable Crabtree, as well as those five poor souls at Toronto General."

Watts accepted graciously, and Julia was glad. She had grown fond of the blunt, eccentric man, and was very much looking forward to opening up the house to guests again.

* * *

"Well, I suppose I'm awake now," Julia quipped as she entered the great room and yawned. William had once again done an exemplary job of looking after George. Everything was tidy, and George was clean, well fed, medicated, and as comfortable as William could make him.

"I must say I'm impressed by your nursing skills, William." He smiled, and she continued, looking at him appraisingly. "How are _you_?"

"I'm quite all right, Julia." She raised an eyebrow, and he looked a little sheepish. "Very well. Not _quite_ all right, but I am improving. I do still need the shaded spectacles, but only when the light is very bright. The nausea has not returned, but I find that a headache lurks whenever I try to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes' time. Now and again I struggle to find a particular word."

"So: you are recovering, but not recovered."

"Yes," he replied. "That would be an accurate assessment."

"You still need rest. Let's have some breakfast, and then you are going back to bed."

William looked bemused, knowing she would brook no argument. They shared some toast, fruit, and tea before Julia kissed him and sent him for a nap. She went to the stove and turned on the fire under the pot of surgical instruments and needles to boil them for twenty minutes, before she rinsed them all with Cresol and left them out to dry.

Finally she could devote attention toward arranging her small laboratory setup on the dining table. She would need to make sure everything was ready when—she had to believe it would be _when_ and not _if_ —the blood sample arrived.

* * *

George began to stir just after ten o'clock. Julia attended to him in the routine that had become all too familiar. Temperature, heart rate, blood pressure: the former was rising, but the latter two were relatively unchanged from what William had recorded overnight. Fluids and food. This morning's fare was more tea of willow bark and meadowsweet, soft toast without crusts, milk mixed with egg whites, and a strained squash soup. A sponge bath, and new gauze and dressing on his arm. Phenacetin, rather than the morphine[i] _._ His wound was still painful, and his muscles and joints ached from the fever, but Julia had decided to wean him off the opiate today.

This morning she decided to apply some witch hazel under his arms—it was an effective deodorant—and ease him into a fresh gown. He was quiet and cooperative, with a faraway look in his eyes.

"George, are you with me?" She pulled the quilt back up over him and tucked him in. "You've hardly said a word since you awakened."

"I suppose I've not had much to say," he replied. "Honestly, I've been feeling quite nauseated, and trying my best not to be sick."

"George! And when were you going to tell me this?"

"Well I've told you just now!" He closed his eyes as if to steady himself, and then gagged. Julia rolled him onto his side, and then dashed for the basin. She had just managed to get it next to his head when he began to retch in earnest.

Julia held the basin with one hand and supported George's head with the other as he vomited again and again, less each time. His shuddering finally subsided, and he lay there spent, panting for breath. She grabbed a cloth, dipped it in the pitcher of water next to his bed, and wiped away the dark green fluid that dribbled from his mouth. "What _is_ that?" he said plaintively. "It's _foul!_ "

"I'm so sorry, George. It's bile. Morphine does this to some people, and it's impossible to predict whom," Julia replied gently. "You vomited so much that there was nothing left in your stomach, so your liver provided bile. Your body wants more morphine. Certainly you can't continue to take it indefinitely, and this is going to happen regardless of when you stop. The longer I give it to you, the worse this process is going to be. I'm so sorry. I'll help you through. I'm right here."

Despair crossed George's face, and he retched again. Julia lifted his head and brought a glass of water to his lips. "Swish it around in your mouth and spit it in the basin. That will help get the taste out of your mouth. Then drink the rest of the water so you don't get dehydrated again. If you can't keep it down, I might have to put you back on the intravenous fluids."

George groaned softly in protest before he took a tentative sip, then another, then a mouthful. He spat it out in the bowl and looked up at Julia pleadingly. She returned his gaze with compassion and empathy, and although George was as miserable as he had ever been, he found comfort in the way she regarded him. He would get through this, and she would help him. He took a few more sips.

They did not stay down. Spasms wracked his abdomen once again, and the water came back up, along with a few more drops of bile. When his body finally stilled, Julia saw that he was crying.

She was nearly ready to weep herself. "Shh, George. It's all right. It's all right." She repeated the words like a mantra as she wiped his mouth and dried his tears.

William appeared in his dressing gown in the doorway, awakened by the ruckus. "What happened?" he asked _sotto voce_ , wrinkling his nose at the stench in the air.

Julia continued to swab at George's desperate face with a cool, damp cloth. "He's coming off the morphine." She gestured at the basin, and William noticed the dark green liquid. "He's vomited bile. Could you replace this basin with a clean one? He's no need to keep catching whiffs of it, and frankly, neither have I."

William obliged. "Can't you give him anything?" he asked as he brought the new basin and then carried the full one to the sink.

"I don't think it's a good idea. Hyoscine is the most effective antiemetic I have in the house, but it can increase inflammation. When the nausea subsides we'll see if he can keep down some ginger tea." George retched again. "Shh, George," she soothed him. "It's all right."

* * *

It was at least another hour before George's shaking finally subsided and he could keep down more than a few drops of water. When he had finished a full glass, Julia rolled him over and he slipped back into sleep. "I think we all could have done quite nicely without any of that," Julia said dryly as she stood up to stretch, and went to the sink to wash her hands. She was drying them off when William appeared behind her and gathered her in his arms.

He kissed her neck a few times, and then just held her as she breathed. "How are you?" he whispered.

"I'm all right. That was awful, but hardly the worst event of the past week. He was never in danger, he was just miserable. As long as there's no reason to give him more morphine—and I certainly hope there won't be—this won't happen again."

The couple regarded their slumbering friend. "He's starting to look rather scrawny," said William. "And he's so pale."

"He is, when he's not flush with fever. And even with all of Miss Hart's meals he's lost weight. I shudder to think how Clarence's patients are doing—he is quite traditional in his methods, and was quite opposed to anything other than a milk diet for them. I hope his obstinacy doesn't delay their recovery. As for George, I know as soon as his fever breaks, he'll be pleased to be back on heartier fare."

Only one basket of food arrived that day, in the late afternoon. Julia heard a knock, and waved hello to Thomas and John as they departed. The provisions were basic but useful: bread, cheese, apples and pears, a dozen eggs, a cold roast chicken, a bunch of carrots, a head of celery, some sliced smoked meats and fish, a gallon of milk, a half pound of butter, and a bag of potatoes, no doubt to be cooked in the purpose-built room. Just exactly the kind of thing she'd hoped Margaret would bring. _Oh, Margaret. I do hope you'll be all right._

* * *

[i] Phenacetin was a predecessor to acetaminophen.


	9. September 5, Day Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters tonight, because the previous one was short. I hope you're all safe and healthy.

The night had passed much as the several previous ones: Julia on the first shift, William on the second. For the first time, George slept through the night, and both of his guardians had drifted off themselves in the armchair during their respective stints at his side. Julia had debated whether to wake him at three o'clock to treat his fever, but it was remaining relatively stable and she wanted to give his stomach a rest from the antipyretics. She went to bed with William's assurance that he would check George's temperature hourly and medicate him as necessary.

George awoke just after eight, an hour before Julia, and William recorded a temperature of 102.6˚, close to what it had been all night. He was more coherent than he'd been in days, although nowhere near his usual cheerful self; he answered most of William's questions in single syllables, and lay mostly still with his eyes closed. His abdominal muscles were quite sore from the previous day's ordeal, but he ate the morning's helpings of soft-boiled eggs, beef juice, and cornmeal gruel without complaint. Julia was pleased to see him drink a lot of water, and noted thankfully that his kidneys seemed to be doing well, at least according to the evidence that William had placed in jars on her desk. Stopping the morphine ought to help get his intestinal tract moving again soon, too. Nurse Sullivan had sent medication and equipment so Julia could take more drastic steps toward that goal, if need be; be that as it may, she certainly hoped for everyone's sake that she would not.

William quietly noted George's melancholy to Julia. She was sad but unsurprised; he was a sensitive man, not yet through a great ordeal. She decided to sit with him for a time and just talk, as if nothing was wrong. _As if he were perfectly healthy, as if we hadn't been confined to the house for nearly a week._ She made small talk about whatever she could think of that would interest him. The weather. The dogs out for walks with the neighbours every day. Highlights from the day's newspaper. A few tidbits from the society page. The outcomes of the week's boxing matches. An advertisement for a new line of fountain pens from the L. E. Waterman Company. George's responses remained mostly monosyllabic, but now and then he would give a small, lopsided smile. He was quietly grateful for the company and the sense of normalcy, even if it was fleeting.

As Julia chatted away, William made French toast, and retrieved some of Margaret's preserves from the ice box. He brought Julia a plate of breakfast, and then pulled the other armchair over to George's bedside so he could eat near him and Julia as well.

William was entertained by watching Julia's charm work its magic on their patient. George slowly perked up as she talked to him, reminding him of the pleasures he took from so many small things. He told her he was cold. She brought him an extra blanket and tucked it around him, and pulled a pair of William's wool socks onto his feet. Eventually he became more of his usual chatty, animated self, waxing eloquent about the joys of a fine, well-made pen, and even smiling more broadly now and then.

Suddenly he sobered. "Now, Julia. I confess to having been somewhat… confused… over the past few days. I dare say there have even been times when I was quite sure I was somewhere other than here. I must ask: what has been happening? It's been hard to tell what's been real and what's been a figment of my imagination."

"And a most vivid imagination it is, George," teased William. "You've not been dreaming of aliens, or zombies, or vampires, have you?"

"Sir!" George sputtered. "I mean William!"

Julia held up a hand and smiled. "Now, now, William, don't wind him up. George, you've been here in our great room for six days now, with a high fever. You've been in and out of delirium. The wound in your arm is draining well, although it is so deep that it will take some time to heal—even after you've recovered from the fever I'll have to see you twice a day every day for at least a couple of weeks, to repack the gauze."

"Well, yes, I've gathered most of that, but thank you. What I meant is what's been happening outside this house. I mean, I do know everything you've just told me from the newspaper, but… is anyone else from Station House Four ill?"

William spoke up first. "No, George, you were the only constable who was wounded in the altercation with Mister Price, and you are the only one who has taken ill."

"That's good, I suppose," said George, "but I'd certainly rather that no one had done so. I can't say as this has been the most pleasant week. And I do apologize for being such a burden on both of you."

"Nonsense, George," replied Julia. "From the moment you were struck down by whatever this illness is, there was never any question but that we would look after you." Her expression turned mischievous. "And I do confess it's been absolutely lovely to spend so much time in trousers and no corset. I'm not sure I'll be able to go back to ladies' wear when the quarantine is done!"

George chuckled. "I must say I was quite confused by your attire once or twice, in my addled state. But in any case, Julia: thank you. Although saying that hardly seems enough." He paused before he said, softly, "I owe you my life."

She met his gaze, eyes shining, and clasped his hand.

"And how are the Inspector and Mrs. Brackenreid? Have they reconciled? Please tell me they've reconciled."

Julia exchanged a glance with William. She had been debating about how to tell George about all the _Stürm und Drang_ going on with the Brackenreids, and decided to keep it very brief. "I wish I could, but they have not, I'm most sorry to say. She's in Grimsby with her sister."

"Was I right in hearing that she had brought food here?"

"Yes," said Julia hesitantly, "she did for a few days, and it was quite delicious. And she brought such enormous quantities of it! It was all a bit much, really. We still have quite a bit of it left over. Perhaps when you're feeling better we can warm some of it up for you."

"She is a mighty good cook. Perhaps I might ask to indulge in some of her cuisine, should my appetite return anytime soon."

"So you're still not hungry," Julia mused.

"Not really, no. I can manage what you feed me, but that's about all I can even think of eating right now." George sighed.

"You have Miss Hart to thank for your food," said Julia, and explained the meticulous research, planning, and preparation her morgue assistant had done to ensure the proper nutrition of a patient with fever.

George was amazed. "I should like to thank her properly when I'm recovered."

"Well, I certainly hope you'll be able to soon."

George's condition still concerned Julia; the stubborn fever continued to weaken him. William, on the other hand, was finding himself less fatigued with each passing day, though the lump on the back of his head was still tender and slightly swollen. Julia sent him for his late morning nap, and he knew better than to protest.

The telephone rang shortly after William had adjourned to the bedroom. Julia was surprised to hear the effusive voice of Ruth Higgins-Newsome. "Doctor Ogden!" the younger woman cried. "I'm so sorry to hear about the current circumstances in which you and Detective Murdoch find yourselves."

Julia's eyebrows rose. "Thank you for your kind words, Ruth, but George is very much the worst off of all of us. He has been gravely ill, and is still quite unwell."

"Well never mind that, I'm sure he'll be fine," breezed Ruth. "I understand you are in need of provisions. Henry said that Mrs. Brackenreid had been bringing meals to your home, but the Inspector said that she's left the city. I would be just thrilled to bring you some delectable treats!"

"That's very kind of you," said Julia. "Mrs. Brackenreid was most generous with her deliveries, so we still have nearly everything we need for the next few days."

"Nonsense!" Ruth exclaimed blithely. "I'll be there this evening." She rang off.

Julia looked at the now-silent receiver and sighed, amused, before she adjourned to the kitchen to prepare some more limewater for mopping the dining room floor.

No sooner than she had placed the mop in the bucket did George emit a small, anguished moan.

"What is it, George?" she asked, trying to gauge the urgency of whatever was wrong.

"I'm sorry, Julia, I'm experiencing some, ah, gastric discomfort. You, ah, may not want to approach me for the next little while."

Julia nearly giggled. "George. I'm a pathologist and a coroner. A bit of flatulence is hardly the worst scent I've had to ignore." She put the mop down and went to his side. "May I examine you?" she asked, gesturing toward his midsection.

"Of course."

"All right, I'll need you to lie flat, then." She lifted his head and pulled three of the four pillows out from behind him, then laid him gently onto the remaining one. She turned the covers down to just below his waist, and shifted the hospital gown out of the way so she could examine his abdomen. "I do apologize if this is uncomfortable," she told him, warming the stethoscope between her hands.

 _Auscultation, percussion, palpation_. The words rose unbidden, in the voice she'd heard from her professor so many times, so long ago. Of course he had refused to allow her to practice the sequence on any of the male volunteers. She had had to recruit a female friend who didn't mind being listened to, tapped on, and poked and prodded, so that she could build her basic medical skills, despite her paying the same tuition as everyone else. She grimaced at the memory, and then turned her attention back to George.

"I'm noticing some bowel sounds—I hadn't heard any for the past few days. This is good news," she told him, taking the stethoscope out of her ears. "I see some distension in the lower left quadrant, over the descending colon," she noted, as she moved diagnostic hands over the swollen area. George winced. "Is that painful?"

"Julia," said George urgently. "Would you please help me with the bedpan. _Right now_ if you could _._ "

* * *

William had been having a lovely dream about riding his wheel up the Don Valley, the wind in his hair and the sun on his face, when he was rudely awakened from his nap. " _William!_ " Julia practically shrieked. He stumbled out of bed and into the great room to be greeted by a foul stench and a terrible mess on the hidden sofa. _Oh, dear. Thank heaven Julia insisted on the oilcloths_.

"Well, I'm glad to see our Constable Crabtree's digestion is back in action, but its return did not go as well as it could have," he remarked wryly as he helped Julia lift George into the tub.

"Indeed it did not," said Julia. George snickered, and turned an even darker shade of red, and apologized for at least the tenth time.

"It's all right, George. A soiled gown and sheets hardly bear mentioning. The important thing is that your bowels are back to working as they should," Julia reassured him, as she soaped him and rinsed him off. Once his nether regions were clean, she worked some soap into his hair. _Might as well take the opportunity_ , she thought.

"You won't tell anyone, will you?" he asked, anxious.

"Of course not. Why would we? Clarence will be interested to know that your digestive system is working well again; he needn't know any specifics."

As their time in quarantine had progressed, all three of them had long since abandoned any pretence of modesty, and become quite matter-of-fact about George's anatomy and bodily functions. As long as George was incapable of looking after his own hygiene, he was… he wouldn't say _comfortable_ letting his immediate superior and his superior's wife have such intimate contact with him, but it bothered him far less than it would have a week before. The current situation really left no room for one to be bashful. However, he trusted that such contact, clinical though it was, would still remain confidential. It was no one's business but theirs.

Julia took the call from Detective Watts an hour later, after George was clean and dry, and tucked back into his bed. "Detective!" Julia greeted him warmly. "What have you?"

"Bad news, I'm afraid. Although I hope that the setback we experienced today is only temporary."

"What happened?" she asked, impatient.

"Well, as you are probably aware, Doctor Morris insisted that Mr. D'Souza and his fellow crew members be confined to their ship for a ten-day quarantine."

"Yes, I knew about that – I certainly don't agree that it is necessary, especially given that we now have a much better idea about how the illness is transmitted… but never mind that for now. Were you able to speak to Mr. D'Souza?"

"We did manage to _see_ him…" he trailed off.

"'We'?" asked Julia.

"I took Miss Hart along to collect a blood sample. We told the Public Health official guarding the ship that it was necessary to have one so that Miss Hart could compare it to a sample obtained from Mr. Price. He finally allowed us to enter the ship on the condition that we wear gloves, aprons, and masks, and wash thoroughly after disembarking."

"Yes? And so what happened?"

Watts cleared his throat. "Well, there was no translator available, and we did try to explain the situation to Mr. D'Souza, but unfortunately we were not successful. I suppose the sight of a masked woman approaching him with a needle quite frightened him." He cleared his throat again.

"Yes?" prompted Julia. "And then what happened?"

"Mr. D'Souza, ah, was sufficiently upset that he felt the need to jump ship."

"Jump ship!" cried Julia. "Do you mean to say he leapt into the water?"

"Yes he did, Doctor. Straight into the harbour. It was quite an elegant dive."

"What!" Julia felt herself reddening. "Have you found him?"

"I regret to say we have not. But we did receive a report of a dark-skinned man climbing out of the water onto one of the docks about half an hour after Mr. D'Souza jumped, and we have a large number of constables out searching the entire area for him. And we have finally located someone who speaks Portuguese, which is apparently Mr. D'Souza's second language."

"Portuguese? But I thought you said he was from India." Julia's head was starting to ache.

"He is, but his area was colonized by the Portuguese nearly 400 years ago. Hence his name. In any case, we are doing everything we can to locate him, and as soon as we do, we will be able to communicate with him. I do apologize for the inconvenience, Doctor."

 _Inconvenience!_ thought Julia bitterly. "Well I certainly hope you will find him quickly. Lives are at stake!"

"I do understand the gravity of the situation." Watts' tone was mild. "I assure you we are doing everything we can. I will be in touch as soon as there is news."

* * *

Julia and William were turning George and arranging pillows under his legs when Julia glanced up at William and noticed that he looked different. "You're not wearing the spectacles."

"I am not," he confirmed. "The light isn't bothering me nearly so much anymore.."

"That's wonderful, William!" Julia beamed at him.

He paused. "I suppose it is, isn't it? I'm still having headaches, but they're not nearly so severe, and my sight is nearly back to normal."

"William, this is marvellous. Honestly I'm thrilled by your recovery. It's remarkable, given how many head injuries you've sustained. I had a patient at the asylum who had never fully recovered from a second serious head injury that she received shortly after the first—she had lost the ability to read or write, and she was quite unable to manage her anger or violent impulses. You know you're a very lucky man!"

"I suppose… although some would argue that if I were truly lucky I wouldn't have sustained the injuries in the first place," he muttered.

Julia gave him a look that was simultaneously exasperated and concerned. "Are you all right?"

"I'm _fine_ ," he snapped.

"You are not _fine_ , William. You are positively testy. Whatever is the matter?"

William dropped his guard—he could never keep it up around Julia for very long—and his demeanour shifted from prickly to forlorn. "Very well. I find myself most… irritable. Everything is making me angry. I suppose I have had enough of being trapped in the house."

Julia kissed him on the cheek. "We all have. I'm so restless from all this confinement that last night I dreamt fondly of the last time I was on horseback, in the snow."

William's eyebrow shot up. "Wasn't that when you rode injured, to rescue me from…" He could not bring himself to say Eva Pearce's name. The thought of her still sickened him.

"Yes, it was. Not the most pleasant ride I've ever taken, for many reasons. That I would dream otherwise just goes to show how this confinement is affecting my own psyche." She studied her husband for a moment, and reached to touch the back of his head. He winced. "And you still have a lump back here. Even though you're seeming mostly recovered otherwise, the remnants of the concussion could certainly be affecting your mood. Perhaps I should be insisting that you sleep more."

"Oh, Julia, I am so _tired_ of sleeping! I need to be _doing_ something."

"Well, how about this? As soon as Detective Watts arrives with the blood sample from Mr. D'Souza…"

"God willing," muttered William glumly.

Julia continued. "Hush, William, remember what I said? _When,_ not _if._ Now I will be in need of a centrifuge to spin the platelets and cells out of the plasma. Do you think this is something you might be able to assemble? Would you need to contact the Detective or the Inspector to bring some supplies for you?"

William's face lit up at the prospect of some productive tinkering. "A centrifuge? I should have remembered that you would need one. Of course!" He thought for a moment. "Now, I believe I can build one from what I have on hand. In fact…" he trailed off as he moved quickly toward his desk.

William spent the next few hours at his desk experimenting with small motors, rubber tubing, gears of various sizes, ball bearings, and one of the large kitchen pans. Every now and then Julia would hear a crash or a clatter and a muttered oath; occasionally they were loud enough to disturb the slumbering George, but it never took long for him to settle and doze off again.

Since the bath (and the incident that had prompted it) he had been sleeping much more easily, and Julia was glad to let him. She had stationed herself at the dining table, not wanting him to be out of her sight, and she was fussing with the lab equipment she had set up in hopeful anticipation of Watts' success with Mr. D'Souza. Miss Hart had been very thorough in what she had packed, and Julia was once again deeply grateful to her.

* * *

At around half past six, Julia invited William to the table for a light supper of cold chicken, piping hot potatoes with butter, and a salad of shredded carrots and raisins. Far more modest than Margaret's fare, but perfectly serviceable. Julia found herself wishing for a glass of wine, but she had decided to abstain until she felt George was sufficiently recovered as to be out of danger.

William and Julia's topics of dinner conversation consisted mostly of William's progress on the centrifuge, and the search for Mr. D'Souza. George woke slowly to the sound of their voices, and as he listened to the couple natter at each other affectionately, he started to become aware of his skin. It felt… tight, somehow, and warm. Itchy.

The voices rose and fell, and there was the occasional burst of laughter. Silverware clinked against china. The last sunbeams of the day held a few flecks of dust in the air.

The itching worsened. George's skin went from feeling like there were tiny insects crawling all over it to feeling like the insects were having a great feast. Or perhaps they were tiny aliens, sent to Earth to take control of the planet by eating the flesh off its current inhabitants. A whimper escaped him, and he started to writhe.

"George?" Julia's attention instantly turned to him. "Are you all right?"

"It itches," he whimpered miserably.

"What itches? Your arm?"

"All of me. Everywhere." He was so weak that all the writhing he could manage was merely shaking his head back and forth and shifting his feet, but his distress was clear.

Julia's expression immediately turned to one of concern. She stood up from the table and nearly dashed to his side. She turned down the quilt to his waist, and lifted up his gown. She inhaled sharply through pursed lips at what she saw: an angry red rash all over his torso, spreading outward to his limbs.

"George, when did this start?"

"Not long ago. It itches… aaaha-ow! it _hurts_!" He started to moan.

Julia laid a hand on George's chest to feel the texture of the rash. "This must be another symptom of the infection. It looks like… chicken pox, or measles."

As she spoke, George felt worse and worse. His heart began to pound, and the air was becoming much too thin. "Oh, dear God," he whimpered, feeling an invisible weight push down on his chest. Julia and William watched in alarm as he reddened and struggled to inhale. "I can't breathe—I can't breathe," he wheezed, and moaned again.

"William! Get the pillows out from under him! Lay him flat!" Julia practically lunged for her stethoscope.

William was laying him down when Julia pulled the hospital gown down to his waist and placed the cold chestpiece of the stethoscope near his heart. She moved it around his entire chest, listening intently, then sat back to get a good look at him. His wide grey eyes were full of terror as he laboured for air, and his skin glistened with sweat.

"George, do you feel pressure in your chest?" she asked urgently.

"Yes," he whispered despondently, and whimpered.

"Cardiac ischemia?" William asked quickly, alarmed.

"I don't think so. Perhaps? His heart rate is extremely high, but it's not irregular. I hear no obstructions in his airway or lungs."

"What about the rash?"

"That I don't know," Julia answered. "George, I need to get a look inside your mouth." She donned a pair of gloves and procured her small light, and gingerly pried his mouth open to peer within. "Hm. No Koplik's spots, but that's not surprising, as he hasn't been coughing or had a runny nose," she mused, and switched the light off. "I need his blood pressure." William immediately moved to retrieve the monitor.

George felt the room closing in on him. He wondered if he might pass out, or worse. _Cardiac? Heart attack. My goodness! Those rhyme_.

 _Not_ now _, George._ The detective's voice chided him gently. Was it real, or in his head?

 _Can't breathe._ He felt a cuff tighten on his arm.

_I'm dying. This is it. I can't breathe—_

"I… can't breathe… I suppose… this is it, then. I had hoped… for a more adventuresome end… to the story of George Crabtree. Please… say goodbye… to Henry and the Inspector for me, and thank you both… for everything," he gasped. "I could not… ask for better friends..."

"Hush, George," William barked. "Julia's not going to let you die." Julia continued listening to his chest, her diagnostic sense humming. _Tachycardia but not arrhythmia. Hyperventilation. Chest tightness. Diaphoresis. Not ischemia_ —

"Blood pressure is 180 systolic, 110 diastolic, pulse a steady 117 beats per minute," reported William.

Julia knew what was wrong.

"George. Look at me." She held his sweaty face, and stared into his wide, panicked eyes. "George. You're going to be all right. It's not your heart, it's your nervous system. You are experiencing extreme anxiety and fear, and this is your body's response. It is temporary and it will pass soon. You're not dying. Do you hear me? You're not dying." Cupping his mottled cheek, she reassured him gently. "You're safe, George. You're going to be all right. I'm going to give you something to calm you." He nodded, eyes still bulging with fright.

She turned to William. "Guide him through some deep breaths. I'll get the phenobarbital." She rose and rushed toward the medicine chest in the kitchen while William crouched down and took George by the shoulders, locking eyes with him.

"Breathe, George. Breathe with me. It's all right. Breathe."

George's impressions of the next few hours were hazy. Later he recalled terror: a sense that _doom was near_. Wanting— _needing—_ to climb out of his own blistering skin. Julia speaking to him urgently, then the detective's face, close to his own, imploring him to _inhale two three four,_ _exhale two three four, inhale two three four, exhale two, three, four_. Air, trying to fill his lungs. A lurch onto his side. A needle in his hip. _Ow._

_Dilating, elongating, stretching time. Finally, a rush of calm. Peace._

_Warm affection for… well, everything. Light sparkling through the stained glass. So much beauty._

_Movement—out of the bed? But still lying down. What's happening?_

_Different things to see! Other ceilings!_

_Clean white tile. Warm, bright light._

_Hands, pulling off clothes. Air everywhere, touching skin. Then water._

_Floating._

_Relief._

* * *

"Has it been long enough? His rash looks… less awful." William looked at Julia.

She glanced at the clock in the bedroom. "Forty-five minutes? I suppose the soda and oatmeal have done as much as they're going to. At least the tepid water has brought his fever down a bit as well."

They lifted a groggy George out of the tub, and placed him once more on the bathmat to dry him off. Julia draped a towel across his lap and produced a bottle of witch hazel, and they both went to work applying it to his rash as he dozed.

Julia changed the gauze in the wound on his arm, and William tucked him into a fresh hospital gown. Julia took the opportunity to apply a bit of toothpaste to a swab and clean his teeth, as she had been doing twice a day. They carried him back to the hidden sofa the same way they had brought him: on an oilcloth, rolled inward on two opposite edges so it could be pressed into use as a stretcher. Julia ably managed her end without complaint, and William was quietly grateful that he had such a strong wife.

George became vaguely aware that he was no longer submerged, but instead back in bed, with Julia tucking the sheet and quilt back over him. He still itched, but not as badly, and whatever she had given him made it difficult to care.

"George, are you still in pain?" she asked kindly.

_George? I keep hearing that word._

_Oh, right. That's me._

He waited briefly to hear himself speak.

_Oh. I suppose I should answer._

"Yes," he finally managed. _My arm hurts. My skin hurts. My head hurts._

"All right, then. I'll give you a small bit of the laudanum. It's an opium derivative just like morphine, so I don't want to give you much, but it will help. And you'll sleep very well tonight."

A gentle hand behind his head, and a cool, bitter liquid in his mouth. Some time later, any remaining sense he could make of anything slipped away. There were pretty colours, and shapes. Squares and triangles. A circle here and there. Lights. Did he have a body? He wasn't sure. Did it even matter?

He decided just to let himself—whatever that was—float away.

* * *

"Is he asleep?" asked William.

"He certainly is," Julia replied, and sighed. "I'd been hoping he was on his way out of the woods. But he's still feverish, and now with this rash…"

"Could it be measles?"

"Measles? Oh, heavens no. There's no excessive secretions of mucus, no coughing or congestion. I'm concerned about inflammation, though. Clarence told me he thinks the initial seizures of all the patients six days ago were from inflammation around the brain, and I'm wondering whether similar inflammation has been affecting George. Elias Price died of heart failure… but he didn't have any sort of rash. I don't know." She paused.

"What about the episode this evening? Is his heart all right?"

"I know you know a prolonged, high fever can do quite a bit of damage to the heart. But his still sounds strong." She paused, and set her jaw. "But William. It's not just his physical health I'm worried about—it's his psyche. This is very difficult for him—he is accustomed to living independently and being able to do whatever he likes, whenever he chooses. This kind of sudden infirmity, his complete dependence on us for every aspect of his care, can be quite harmful to his sense of self, particularly when so little is known about the course of this illness and the recovery."

William nodded, and Julia continued. "What happened this evening was a classic anxiety attack. I've seen the like at the asylum many times. Elevated heart rate and respiration, hypertension, sudden perspiration, tightness in the chest – the symptoms are often mistaken for heart attack, and to the person experiencing them they are quite traumatic. George clearly believed his life was about to end. Tonight will leave him with another wound, an invisible one, but still one that will take time to heal." She gazed at him sadly, and gently ran a hand through his rumpled hair. His face was starting to look a little gaunt. "Poor George. All this, just from yet another seemingly regular day at work." She stood up, and stretched. "I should advise Clarence."

She did, in a very short conversation. She informed him about George's anxiety attack, most likely provoked by the onset of the rash, and described her course of treatment for him. Clarence reported grimly that all five of the patients on the quarantine ward were also covered in the angry red rash, and one, an elderly gentleman, had slipped into a coma a few hours ago, shortly after his skin became inflamed. A nurse interrupted him, and he ended the call.

"Well," Julia said to William. "At least we know that certain symptoms of this illness are remarkably consistent in their presentation."

"The other patients have developed the rash as well? What about the anxiety?" he asked.

"They all have the rash, but the anxiety seems to be unique to George. Something must have sparked it for him alone. As for the other patients, one of them is now comatose. Clarence reported that he is quite elderly, so there could be something other issue at hand, or the illness could have exacerbated an existing condition."

"Perhaps." William inclined his head, then reached over and gently tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear. "It's strange to see you with the simple braid again, after so many years with your hair up during the day." He let his hand linger on her chin, and she smiled in spite of herself.

"The braid is easy, and fast. You may be surprised to learn that right now, there seem to be more pressing matters at hand than the style of my hair."

"I can't imagine what you mean," he teased.

"Hard to fathom, isn't it," she returned, and smiled again.

William became serious. "What are you going to do right now? We both need sleep. It has not been a particularly restful evening, or week, for that matter."

"I'll take the first part of the night with George, as usual. I'll need rest to make sure I can do justice to the antiserum tomorrow, at least if Detective Watts can track down Mr. D'Souza."

"Perhaps you should sleep first, then. I'll stay with him."

"That's kind of you, but I think we should stay with the routine we've established. Besides, you still need as much sleep as you can get. It's just past eight o'clock now—I'll come get you at three. The phenobarbital will be wearing off then and I'll need to be here to assess him and decide whether to give him anything else."

"Very well. I shall endeavour to sleep well, my beloved," he said, and pulled her close to kiss her good night.


	10. September 6, Day Seven

George had indeed begun to stir as William came to spell off Julia in the wee hours, and she had dosed him with some phenacetin, rather than laudanum, before she retired to bed. _No more opiates unless he desperately needs them._ His condition remained stable, neither improving nor deteriorating, for the rest of the night. William rolled him onto his side at about five o'clock, and once again, he let Julia sleep until she awakened after nine.

Julia's morning examination of their patient revealed little that was new. The phenacetin appeared to be as effective in reducing fever as the willow bark and meadowsweet mixture, and it was easier on his stomach. George's temperature remained above 102˚, although his pulse and blood pressure were at reasonable levels, and his wounded arm continued to heal. His rash looked drier and less florid, and he himself remained lucid, if unusually quiet. He let Julia feed him a pint of water and then another, a few swallows at a time. He still felt terrible.

At nine-thirty, there was a knock on the door. William was so engrossed in his tinkering that the knock startled him enough to drop his screwdriver into the guts of what he was working on. "Damn it!" he spat.

"William! Are you all right?" Julia was shocked to hear him curse. She could count on one hand the number of times she had heard him do so, in the decade and a half that she had known him.

"Oh, I'm fine," he groaned. "I just lost an hour's work, is all. Who is that at the door?"

Julia turned and looked through the front window to see a stooped figure departing. _Watts!_ He waved, and smiled at her, his eyes twinkling. "He didn't," she breathed. "Did he?" She nearly ran to the door, and flung it open.

Sitting on the front porch was a jar of blood. _Blood! They found him! They found D'Souza!_ Julia practically danced with excitement at the sight. She waved back at Watts and shouted "Thank you! Thank you, Detective!" as he reached the street, trying to suppress a squeal of glee. Watts tipped his hat at her, and then he was gone.

"It's blood, William!" She put the jar down gingerly on the dining table, and then ran to hug him. "Blood!"

George managed a feeble laugh. "For all the blood I've seen in our line of work, I can't say as I've ever seen anyone quite so excited by the sight of it before."

"George, you do know what this means, don't you? It means I have a way to try to cure you!"

"That would certainly be welcome news, if it's true. I'd be quite grateful to feel completely myself again. Much as I like your house, I do miss my own abode."

"Well, I shall do my utmost to get you home as quickly as possible," Julia told him, smiling. "I must get to it!"

While Julia worked in her improvised laboratory, William handled the morning's telephone calls. About twenty minutes after he had dropped off the blood, Watts rang to explain how he and Station House No. 4 had managed to find Mr. D'Souza and convince him of the pressing need.

The Station House had been galvanized to find the frightened man: Constable Crabtree's life was at stake. A comprehensive search of all points south of the Keating Channel had finally turned him up cowering in a warehouse. Watts had given the constables strict instructions that they were not to alarm him, so there were several constables monitoring the exits of the warehouse but none inside when Watts himself had arrived there with the Portuguese-speaking gentleman and Miss Hart.

Mr. D'Souza had nearly cried with relief to hear the translator, a Mr. Brandão, shout " _Você está seguro! Seguro_ _!"_ to him. " _You are safe! Safe!_ " He and Mr. D'Souza had taken some time to adjust to each other's accents and dialects, but when Mr. D'Souza had finally understood the situation, he gladly volunteered to help. He had offered as much blood as he could spare to Miss Hart, and demanded that they keep in touch with him to let him know how Constable Crabtree and the five patients in the hospital would fare.

Watts reported that Mr. D'Souza was quite distressed about the entire situation, and blamed himself for the deaths and illnesses. He had been friendly with Mr. Price, as the other man's mother was Portuguese and the two had some words in common. Mr. D'Souza had been ill briefly when the coal ship was on its way from Pennsylvania – he had had a low-grade fever for a day or so, and when the fever subsided he broke out in an annoying rash that had cleared within about 24 hours. While he was feverish, he had briefly lost his grip on one of the ship's ropes, and the resultant rope burn had drawn blood. What was more, his lost grip had caused Mr. Price to lose his as well, injuring him similarly. After the mishap, to show there were no hard feelings, they shook—bloodied—hands.

"That has to have been it," said Julia. "And perhaps Mr. D'Souza's origins have contributed to his stronger resistance?"

"I was wondering about that," mused Watts. "Perhaps in his country this is a relatively mild illness, while it affects those from here much more strongly because we have never been exposed to it before." He cleared his throat. "The reports from Erie say that no one there has reported similar symptoms, so the illness may have been contained."

"Marvellous!" exclaimed Julia. "I don't believe there's any further risk to anyone as long as no blood is exchanged. There seems to me to be no more reason for the quarantine. But I don't suppose Doctor Morris will hear any of that while there are still people ill."

"Indeed," said Watts. "He does seem a particularly cautious man. Well, I wish you and Detective Murdoch and Constable Crabtree well; their absence at the station house is being keenly felt."

"Thank you, Detective. I must get to work on the antiserum." And so she did.

By ten o'clock, Julia was in the middle of centrifuging a small batch of the blood when Clarence phoned. She looked around for William to ask him to watch the machine while she took the call, but he was nowhere to be found, so she turned it off, to her chagrin. She would have to start the batch again when the telephone call was concluded.

Clarence told her that he wanted to let her know that the elderly, comatose patient had just passed, and he would be in touch late the following day with the results of the autopsy. The delay was inevitable because Doctor Matthews would need to be recalled from Montreal, and he was unable to leave that city until the 7:30pm train, which would not put him in Toronto until 6:10 the following morning. He put the phone down before Julia could reply.

She was incensed. "The hell with that man!" she exclaimed. "Not that I was going to tell him about the antiserum, but wasn't it just like him to assume I had nothing to say? And Miss Hart is perfectly capable. Three people are already dead. We need the findings from that autopsy. If there is a chance to save others, we simply must. _Drat you_ , Clarence. Why must you make this so difficult?"

"Julia?" William peered out of the bedroom, startled. "What are you on about?"

"Give me a moment, William." She closed her eyes briefly, then picked up the receiver once more. "Yes, could you connect me with the operator in Montreal?"

Fifteen minutes later, Julia telephoned Clarence back. She had asked Doctor Matthews to remain in Montreal, and she was asserting her authority as Chief Coroner of Toronto to demand that Miss Hart be allowed to conduct the autopsy, in the interest of time. Julia trusted Miss Hart's work enough that she would sign the death certificate even without being there to observe. She told him, "As long as the patients in the quarantine ward are alive, they are under your jurisdiction. The moment they die, they come under mine."

Clarence was most taken aback; he had clearly not expected a mere _woman_ to hold any power over him, let alone exert it. She did not wait for him to finish sputtering before she informed him that the morgue wagon would be along shortly to collect the deceased. She thanked him crisply for his cooperation, and hung up. She stood up, smoothed out her trousers (well, William's trousers), and found her husband regarding her with affection and awe.

"I'm almost certainly going to pay for that later, but I dare say I enjoyed it," she smirked mischievously.

"I guess I needn't wonder anymore why you've hung onto your position as coroner," William chuckled. "It seems you enjoy the authority it confers."

"Indeed I do." She smiled. "And if Clarence thinks he's furious now, wait until he hears about my work on the antiserum."

"He's not receptive to the idea."

"Not even a little. He is _still_ insisting that we just wait and see, and give up on the antiserum before it's even tried. William, I won't have it." Her eyes flashed with anger. "George needs more help than he's getting. I'm going to keep working on that antiserum, and I'm going to get it right, and I'm going to give it to him. This has gone on long enough."

William gazed at her lovingly: this was the bold, stubborn Julia he'd always adored. "Whenever you look like that, woe betide anyone who stands in your way."

* * *

Julia spent the morning working in her makeshift laboratory while William looked after the housekeeping and attending to George. She noticed he left the room every time the centrifuge was working—was he still sensitive to noise? She would have to ask him.

"How is your progress?" William asked as he washed some dishes, and kept an eye on the pot of boiling water on the stove that was getting syringes and thermometers ready to be disinfected with the Cresol. Julia wondered if he was still contemplating his design for a dishwashing cupboard.

"I think I'm close. Your improvised centrifuge is just the thing to spin everything out of the plasma. The main thing I need to understand now is dosage. I want to keep it as low as possible in case it works, so there will be enough to help the other five—oh, dear. I mean four. The other four patients." Her expression darkened. "If that… _Clarence_ will even give it to them."

"Well, he'll have to, won't he? It would look quite poorly on someone tasked with promoting public health to deny treatment to ill patients."

"It would indeed. I'd rather not have to publicize any of this, though. I'm sure Clarence is stung enough by my pulling the rank of the coroner's office. I do have to maintain some sort of professional relationship with the man, after all, and he's very well connected. Perhaps the mere suggestion of poor publicity would be enough to bring him around, but we're getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we? We don't even know yet if this will work." She peered into the microscope. "Just a few platelets and white blood cells left. I'm going to spin this down one more time, and then I suppose we'll find out."

About an hour later, Julia turned off the centrifuge for the final time. She worked over it for a few moments, decanting a yellowish liquid into a phial, and then pulling it up into a freshly sterilised syringe. "It's time, George. Let's all hope this is what is going to cure you and get you back on your feet."

George closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer as Julia approached him with the needle. He kept them closed as he heard her pull on the gloves, and clenched his teeth and hissed as he felt her pierce his skin and slide the needle into the vein. He was so tired of needles.

Julia pressed the plunger slowly, then withdrew the needle from his arm. George opened one eye.

"What now?" he asked feebly.

"Now, we wait."

Julia noted the time she administered the antiserum: 11:06am. The rest of the day inched by, Julia checking and recording all of George's vitals every half hour. He was sore and itchy because she had taken him off all the other medications, so that she could judge the effectiveness of the antiserum as accurately as possible.

To pass the time and distract him from the itching, William decided to read some of the day's newspaper aloud. Julia came over at nearly one o'clock to listen in, and feed him lunch. His appetite seemed better: he consumed some junket, two soft-boiled eggs, a half sandwich of cold roast chicken on soft toast, and more than a quart of water. Less than an hour later, he asked for William's help with the bedpan. Positive signs.

George dozed off in the midafternoon. Neither William nor Julia wanted to leave the room, so they each sat at their respective desks, Julia writing notes for a potential journal article about the illness, and William tinkering with… something. Julia quietly looked forward to hearing all about it when he was ready to present the finished product to her, with his endearing, almost childlike enthusiasm. How she loved him.

Julia gently woke George at five o'clock to examine him.

"What's his temperature?" asked William.

"It's coming down," she answered, almost afraid to contemplate the idea that their collective ordeal might finally be nearing an end.

Just past seven, all three were startled by a knock at the door. Julia went to the window to see who it was. Ruth and Henry Higgins-Newsome stood on their front porch, bearing a colossal white box and beaming. Julia shouted through the door: "Hello, Ruth! Hello, Henry!"

"Well, hello!" Ruth enthused, and waited. Henry waved. Finally she spoke again: "Aren't you going to open the door?"

"Pardon?" shouted Julia.

"The door! Open the door!" Ruth and Henry both cried.

"Ruth! Henry" exclaimed Julia. "I can't! We're under quarantine!"

"Quarantine!" shouted Ruth. "Of course! I should have known you couldn't open the door!" Henry slapped his forehead.

"Now the entire neighbourhood knows," muttered Julia saturninely. "Ruth!" she cried. "Please leave the box and I will telephone you later."

"Telephone? Very well, I shall telephone you later. Ta-ta!" She put the box down and used a handkerchief to wave goodbye. Julia took a deep breath and waited until Ruth and Henry climbed back into the red motorcar and drove away, and then she opened the door.

The box was fastened with a wide, elaborately decorated satin ribbon. Julia brought it into the house, and placed it on the end of the dining table that was still reserved for food. She untied the ribbon, and lifted the lid.

The box contained a lavish assortment of beautiful pastries and cakes, artfully arranged on layers of coloured cardboard held apart by strategically placed wooden dowels. Julia spotted sugar-dusted profiteroles, napoleons, éclairs, and Paris-Brests before she closed it again, and burst out laughing.

"Julia?" asked William, disconcerted.

She tried to answer him between fits of laughter, but could not. She merely gestured at the box, and laughed until the tears came.

William went to the table and opened the box. For a moment he was speechless. George watched him, fascinated. "Sir? I mean William?"

William raised first one eyebrow, and then the other to join it. "French pastries, George. She sent French pastries. Very fine ones, it would appear. I think she may have bought an entire bakery."

Julia managed to collect herself for a moment. "I suppose if we all gorged ourselves constantly on nothing but pastries until the end of the quarantine, we might come close to finishing them." She nearly guffawed, and wiped away a tear. "Oh, Ruth Newsome of the Mimico Newsomes. Thank you. You have given me the best laugh I've had in weeks."

William continued to regard the pastries, baffled. "I had not thought it possible to send less practical food than Mrs. Brackenreid's _vol au vents_." He smiled slightly and shook his head. "Mrs. Higgins-Newsome's choice is certainly… noteworthy."

William's choice of words sent Julia back into peals of laughter. "Oh, William. I have to sit down."

She took the chair next to George's bed, still giggling, and out of habit she laid a hand on his forehead.

"George!" she whispered, her eyes wide, and reached for the thermometer. "You don't feel warm!"

His eyes widened to match hers as she placed the thermometer in his mouth. "How are you feeling?" she asked. He opened his mouth to speak, and she shook her head quickly. "Just nod yes or no while you have the thermometer. Are you feeling better?"

A nod.

"Any pain?"

He thought for a moment, thin-lipped, and then tilted his head from side to side.

"Some, but not bad," she guessed.

Another nod.

"Joints?"

A shake.

"Muscles."

More head tilting.

"So, a little bit sore, but again, not bad."

"Mm-hmm," said George.

"Skin still itchy?"

Another nod, and a bit of a tilt.

"Any dizziness, or nausea?"

A shake, and a small smile.

A long silence while she studied him intently, peering into his eyes, scrutinizing his rash, checking his pulse and blood pressure for what seemed like the millionth time. She finally withdrew the thermometer from his mouth and read it.

"What does it say?" William asked. Julia had nearly forgotten he was in the room.

"99.4," she declared, and took a deep breath.

"That's the first time it's been below 101 in a week," William managed. "Does…" He paused to collect himself. His voice was thick with emotion. "Does this mean what I think it does?"

"George. Oh, my dear George. I can hardly believe it." Julia put down the thermometer, and squeezed his hands. "It would appear that you're finally on your way out of the woods."

The mood in the household was jubilant. Julia poured a dram of whisky, and impulsively offered it to William; to her surprise, he accepted. She poured herself another, and they drank to George. Although he was still very weak, unable even to lift his head off the pillow, the man himself was all smiles. The crushing lethargy from the fever was nearly gone, the muscle aches and joint pains were down to a dull roar, and the rash—well, it still itched, but he no longer wanted to climb out of his own skin. He was alive, and on the mend.


	11. September 7, Day Eight

William had suggested that he and Julia could finally resume sharing their bed and get a good night's sleep (among other things), but Julia had decided to err on the side of caution, and the two spent one more night in shifts at George's side. Julia was awake just after seven o'clock, on only four hours' sleep—she needed to examine him, needed to _know_. Was the antiserum really the key?

When she entered the room, George was propped up on pillows, and William was helping him hold a glass to his mouth. "William! When was the last time you took his temperature?" Julia burst out, startling both of them into spilling a bit of water onto George's chest.

"Good morning, my dear Julia. What are you doing awake so early?" William asked, as he blotted at George with a corner of the sheet.

"His temperature, William!" she demanded. "When did you last measure it, and what was the reading? We won't be able to measure it again for another 20 to 30 minutes, now that you're giving him fluids by mouth!"

William lifted an eyebrow and exchanged a sly, conspiratorial look with George before pointing toward the handwritten records. "It was about five minutes ago, and it was 98.6—the same as it was three hours before that."

The news brought her up short. "Really?" she asked, stunned, hardly daring to believe it.

"Really," said George, grinning widely. "It seems as if my fever's finally broken. And about time, too."

"My God, George! Can it be true?" Julia's smile was joyous as she quickly examined him, and glanced at William's careful records. "How are you feeling?"

"So much better, Julia, you wouldn't believe it. There were times in the past eight days when I felt barely human. Now I feel 'fit as a fiddle,' as the Inspector would say, or at least I would if I weren't so weak. But compared even with yesterday—good heavens, I feel so much improved." He spoke more slowly than usual, with some effort, but he was clearly pleased to be able to say his piece.

Julia's expression turned to one of concern. "Tell me about this weakness. I was hoping it would pass when the fever did."

"Well, it seems I am as weak as the proverbial cat. I can't raise my arms or move my legs more than a few inches without feeling quite exhausted, and sitting upright without support is entirely out of the question."

Julia lifted his arm, and rotated it so that his palm faced her. She pressed her hand to his, and instructed him, "Push my hand away, George. Push it away from yourself." Both of them were disappointed when he could not even keep her hand at a steady distance, let alone move it back toward her.

"Your muscle tone is indeed quite poor at the moment," she said in that apologetic tone she used to deliver bad news to her patients, "but given a program of physical therapy I'm hopeful that you should be able to recover quite quickly."

"My goodness, I hope so," he replied. He took a breath, then spoke again, with some trepidation. "I have to ask: are you sure this recovery is genuine? I'm not going to relapse, am I?"

"Well," Julia began, and hesitated. "We know so little about your illness that I can't say for certain. But Mr. D'Souza's recovery appears to be complete, and you've not experienced any new symptoms since the rash. Rashes from diseases such as chicken pox and measles usually come at the end of the period of illness."

George visibly recoiled at the word "measles." Both William and Julia looked at him curiously.

"What is it, George?" Julia asked.

"Well…" he began reluctantly, his tone anguished.

"Have you had the measles?" she persisted gently.

A sad, faraway look came across his face. He was silent for a time, lost in thought and memory.

"Yes," his answer finally came, no louder than a whisper.

"How old were you?" asked Julia.

They were both speaking so softly that William had to strain to hear them.

"Nine. We were nine years old."

* * *

George told the story slowly; even decades later, it clearly still caused him great pain. A measles epidemic had swept through his school. Two of his close friends had had to leave after they became ill: one was permanently blinded, while the other lost most of his hearing. Worse, George's best friend, a boy named Daniel Parkin, had died of the subsequent pneumonia. George himself had been seriously ill, and his aunts had been terrified that he would die as well. It had felt like months before he was allowed to go back to school, and once he did go back, the sight of his friends' empty desks hit him every day like a blow to the gut.

"I've never talked about this before," he said. "I couldn't." Julia nodded kindly, and William's eyes were full of understanding and compassion. He knew all too well what it was to lose someone dear at so young an age.

"Death is ever-present in a place where so many men fish the sea," George said sadly, "and most of the time people there just soldier on. But I couldn't. Daniel was the head boy, and everyone loved him. I felt like they all hated me for surviving when he had died. I myself felt guilty that I'd lived. I cried in class every day for the rest of the year. I couldn't help myself. I kept getting sent to the headmaster's office, and each time I was there he would, in his words, 'give me something to cry for.'" George trailed off, his eyes full of tears.

"George," said William almost inaudibly. The two men locked eyes. William gave a brief nod: he knew. He understood.

George exhaled. "Master Templeman was a frequent visitor to the rectory, and when my aunts found out he'd beaten me, they banned him from the house until he promised he would never touch me again. They even made him write me an apology. I still have it." He paused, seeing in his mind's eye the book that held it on the shelf in his room. "But it didn't make Jimmy or Pete or Daniel come back."

"I'm so sorry, George," whispered Julia.

"So am I." George closed his eyes. The air was still for a time. A carriage rattled by outside. William reached out and squeezed George's right shoulder for a moment.

Julia finally broke the silence. "I suppose we know now what brought on your anxiety attack two days ago."

George gave a small smile. "I suppose we do." He was pensive. "That time has never really left me. Not so long ago I dreamt I went back to the school, uniform and all, and beat Master Templeman senseless with my truncheon. What would Doctor Freud have to say about that, Doctor Ogden?"

Julia choked, and stifled a laugh. "I don't think that one needs much interpretation, George."

"I'm no psychiatrist, but I must agree with the good doctor here." William grinned. "The meaning of that seems pretty clear to me." His expression hardened into something almost feral. "It must have felt wonderful."

"Oh, it did. It did," grinned George. "It felt wonderful indeed."

* * *

George's rash still itched enough that Julia decided George could use another soak in a lukewarm bath, with more bicarbonate of soda and oatmeal. While he (except for his arm) was immersed, Julia proposed an idea: some time out of doors. She and William had a garden of a decent size behind the house; it was reasonably secluded by shrubbery, out of view of the neighbours, and sunlight might be an effective way to help clear up the rash. William was particularly enthused by the idea.

"Now you're sure that Clarence won't try to punish us for breaking the quarantine by going outside…" he began as they carried George on the makeshift stretcher out to the back garden.

"Frankly, William, at this point I don't care if he does. Neither you nor I, nor anyone else in the entire city of Toronto, is at any risk of contracting the illness from George anymore. And how would he punish us? By using the force of the Constabulary? I should hardly think so."

William gave a tight-lipped smile and raised an eyebrow as they deposited George, oilcloth and all, on pillows set atop a wooden chaise longue. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I am, William." She arranged a pillow under George's knees, then moved to his shoulders so she could ease his arms out of the gown and fold it down to expose his whole top half to the hot sun. It was unusually warm for a September day.[i]

George lay with his eyes closed, smiling; he heard William walking away, and then the door closing as he went back into the house. "Julia?" he finally asked, and glanced around for her.

She was lying on the chaise next to his, sleeves and trouser legs rolled up, letting the sun beat down on her as well. "Yes, George?" she answered unhurriedly.

George's eyes drifted back closed. "There were times in the past week when I wondered whether I would ever feel this again. The sun on my skin, the wind blowing gently over me. I've not felt this… this _free_ since Hannah Rice and Helmut Lindemann were in town. It was far too easy to become accustomed to being unclothed while out of doors. "

Julia smiled at the memory. " _I_ was certainly enjoying the experience at their colony, at least until you all showed up and gawked at me."

George sputtered in amusement. He would not soon forget the looks on his superior officers' faces that day.

They both lay there in companionable silence for a time, savouring the moment and the joyous sensation of being out of doors after so long trapped inside. Julia would never say so, but she too had harboured doubts that George would ever be outside again. They both listened contentedly to the breeze pass through the trees, rustling the leaves, and the hum of the cicadas singing their last before the inevitable autumn chill.

* * *

William stood inside the house watching George and Julia sun themselves. He dearly loved being out of doors, but today's foray out of the house had been nearly unbearable. He felt that multiple senses were under assault—the buzzing cicadas and the Canada geese flying in formation overhead were much too loud, the sun far too bright, the scent of fresh-cut grass and the feel of the hot, humid air far too overwhelming. His head began throbbing almost immediately. As soon as George was arranged on the chaise, William had beaten a hasty retreat back inside without even excusing himself, and he was dreading the process of retrieving their recovering patient and reinstalling him in the great room. Waiting next to the door and peering out of it through his shaded spectacles was about all he could manage.

Eventually Julia sat up, and started lifting George's limbs, one at a time, and bending them in various directions. _Looks like everything still moves_ , William thought, and nodded approvingly. The two were facing away from him, so he could not read their expressions, and they were far enough that he could catch only the smallest part of their conversation, usually not much more than a word at a time. Their tones sounded jovial enough, though.

William was shaken by what had happened to him when he had left the house. He did not want to worry Julia, but the effects of his concussion were still very much with him. He couldn't recall another time when it had take him so long to recover from a knock on the head, and he was silently terrified that the latest symptom would not resolve.

Since he had come back into the house, he had not been able to make sense of any written words. He could see the letters on the page, identify each one individually, but his ability to resolve them into meaning had somehow evaporated. He had first noticed this new affliction when he glanced at the notes next to George's empty bed, and could not understand his own handwriting. He had spent the next several minutes staring intently at the day's newspaper; the headlines and body text looked an incomprehensible collection of alphabet toy blocks that refused to assemble themselves into anything resembling sense.

His heart was pounding. He would have to tell Julia. His first impulse was to hide the difficult news from her, but it made no sense to do so. What would he be hoping to gain? A briefly extended interlude of peace and relief from worry for her? At what cost, though? If this recent development was a symptom of a worsening injury, she needed to know sooner rather than later.

 _I suppose Julia would tell me I'm being positively sensible_ , he smiled. Then, he steeled himself and called out to her.

* * *

"Well, William, I see why you're concerned," she said, putting her light down and regarding him appraisingly. "Sudden onset of alexia eight days after a concussion is certainly disturbing." He blinked a few times to try to shake the image of the brilliant, searing light out of his eyes. "Concussion is a very difficult injury. The effects can manifest themselves weeks if not months later. The best treatment is rest, extended rest, and even with that it could be quite some time before you're fully yourself again."

A look of anguish flashed across William's face. "I suppose you're going to be telling me to go to bed right now," he said sadly.

"I'm afraid so. I'm sorry, William. This kind of symptom is nothing to toy with. But with sufficient rest and _understimulation_ "—she shot him a meaningful look—"you will recover."

"All right, Julia," William said resignedly. "I'll go back to bed in a darkened room." He grimaced. "I… I don't… I can't not read. I can't." The words caught in his throat.

"It will come back, William." She spoke with a confidence she wished she could feel. "You'll be well again. You just need time."

"Time," he repeated. "You're sure." His distress began to ease as he gazed into the eyes of the woman he loved and trusted from this day to the ending of the world.

"Of course I'm sure, William." Now her voice caught, and they both knew for an instant that she wasn't sure at all. "But rest and time are the only hope of recovery for you." She pursed her lips, and then leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

He nodded, slowly. "All right," he said again. "Time. I must be patient."

"Yes, my dear William. Patience."

He started toward the bedroom, then turned back toward her. "Just a moment. Can you get George back into the house on your own?"

"I shall try. If you hear shouting and a loud thud, you can assume that I did not succeed," she teased.

"Julia!"

She laughed mischievously. "I'll manage, William. Go to bed."

He nodded, resigned to at least another day trapped in the bedroom. Perhaps he would bring in a pad and pencil so that he could sketch some ideas for exercise equipment that George could use in his recovery.

* * *

"Where's William?" George asked when Julia finally came back outside and perched on the edge of the chaise next to him.

"He's inside."

"Is he quite all right?" George asked solicitously. "It's odd that he's not out here with us when he seemed so excited about leaving the house. And there have been times recently where he has seemed… rather irritable, I dare say."

"He's still recovering from the concussion. These things can take quite some time. He's quite sensitive to loud noise and bright light." She decided not to mention the new symptoms—with luck, they would pass soon.

"He's in bed, then?" he inquired, and Julia nodded. "You know, I would dearly love to know more about how he sustained his injury. He led me to believe that it was a vaudeville-style pratfall; was it really quite so amusing?"

 _It was one of the worst things I've ever seen, George: my William_ — _finally, finally_ my _William_ — _knocked out cold at my feet. For a moment I didn't even know if he was still alive._

"I'm afraid it was far from amusing, George," she said tightly, avoiding his gaze.

George's eyes widened. He had had a nagging fear ever since the detective had refused to provide any details. A terrible realization suddenly struck him: "Wait. You said that the fever patients had attacked people." Julia looked stunned as she tried to figure out what to say. Her hesitation was enough for George.

"Oh, God. I did it, didn't I. I hit him. I knocked him down. Oh, God. I hurt him. It was me," he breathed.

"Oh, George." Julia finally met his eye, and looked at him with great kindness. She drew a breath. "Yes, it was your hands that sent William to the floor, but it wasn't you behind them. It was your illness. Put the blame where it belongs. I know—and he knows—that you would never hurt him. Your fever came on so quickly that it gave you a seizure, and your state of delirium just thereafter prompted you to strike him. He was so shocked he couldn't catch himself."

"Oh, God," said George, reeling. "Oh, God, oh, God. What have I done? If I hadn't been here, if I hadn't become ill…"

"George!" Julia said sharply. "Did you hear nothing of what I just said? None of this, not your illness, not the quarantine, not William's injury— _not one bit_ of it is your doing, or your fault. Do you hear me?"

George looked at her miserably, and there was a long silence.

"George?" Julia prompted him.

He finally spoke. "I suppose you're right. But I still feel terrible."

She took his hand. "I understand, but there's no need for you to. He's going to recover completely, George. I know he is. He just needs more rest."

"Rest. Lord, I hope that will do it."

"It will, George, it will." Julia's quiet confidence calmed him, even if she hardly felt confident or calm herself. She stretched out on her chaise again, and they were both silent for a time. The hum of the cicadas began to irritate her.

" _Rest,_ " said George suddenly. "That's all very well for the detective, but do you know what, Julia? I'm tired of resting. How long has it been? Eight days that I've been flat on my bum? I'm tired of it. I don't think I've been on my back for this long a stretch since I was a young lad. Well, I suppose I've told you about that now, haven't I. And I've just about had it with being so weak. Can you imagine it, Julia? Well, yes, I suppose you can, given with what happened with Miss Pe— well, never mind about her. I'm sorry I brought her up. In any case I certainly hope William isn't laid up nearly this long, or he'll almost certainly go daft, as the Inspector might say. I'm not sure I'm not quite daft myself by now, after such an extended period of inactivity. And I admit I am fearful that the more I lie around, the longer it will take to get back on my feet. At least the detective can still walk. Although a strong sensitivity to noise and light would be quite debilitating as well, I suppose – I do mean, given our line of work it would certainly interfere with one's ability to do the job… yes, I suppose that would also be terrible as a permanent affliction. I certainly hope for the Detective's sake that his recovery is swift and complete. And, well, mine as well," he added quietly, and gave a quick half-smile. "I may have mentioned that I'm sick of rest."

Julia nearly burst out laughing with relief at hearing George sound so much more like himself. "Indeed you have, George Crabtree, and I should hardly blame you. Rest for you and William both is of course the most appropriate course of treatment, but I know from bitter experience how tedious it can become. I hope it's at least more agreeable when the rest is taken out of doors?"

"My goodness yes, it is. I confess I'm dreading having to return inside."

"Well! How odd that you should mention that. With William indisposed, I'm afraid I can't manage getting you back into the house on the oilcloth all on my own. I've been thinking about how we're going to do this. This may be a bit of an adventure."

* * *

A couple more hours went by, and both George and Julia reluctantly decided it was time to go back in. They had discussed several ways of transporting him, and Julia had eventually become cagey about her plan. She ended up heaving George up to standing from the chaise in a single motion, after a few failed attempts to get him sitting up that left them both giggling like schoolchildren. He wobbled unsteadily for a very brief moment, long enough for Julia to lean down and come up underneath him.

"Julia!" George spluttered. "What are you _doing_?"

"I'm trying to get you into a fireman's carry, George," she gasped, bearing nearly his entire weight across her lower back.

"Can you _do_ that?" He tried tentatively to take a step, in hopes that he would suddenly be able to walk himself into the house and save her the effort of manhandling—womanhandling?—him there.

"George! Hold still!" she hissed. "I'll lose my balance!" She lowered him back to the ground. "Yes, I think I can do that; it's just getting you onto my shoulders..."

"Now Julia, let's think about this," he said with some alarm as she stood up underneath him again and hefted him into the air. "Julia! This feels quite precarious! I shouldn't like to be dropped!"

"All right, George, let's go," she grunted, and began the lurching journey toward the house.

* * *

"Well, that was indeed quite an adventure, and one that I shouldn't wish to repeat anytime soon," said George, sprawled haphazardly across his sickbed while Julia caught her breath in the armchair.

"I shouldn't either. My goodness! I can't say as I'd like to make it a habit to ferry grown men around on my back. George, we need to get you moving again, so you're back on your own two feet. You know you are most dear to me, but I've enjoyed about as much of carrying you as I can stand."

"And I hardly wish to be carried. I am most keen to be ambulatory once again." He yawned, and lifted a hand gingerly to cover his mouth. "Excuse me," he said from behind it, and then absently rubbed his chin. "Good gracious, I seem to be well on my way to a full beard."

Julia lit up, and gave him a radiant smile. "George! Do you realize what just happened?"

"You carried me across Hell's half acre and frightened me half to death? I realized that I'm quite unshaven and most likely beginning to look like a Sasquatch?"

"Your hand, George. You raised it yourself!"

He looked at his hand resting on his chest, and brightened. "I suppose I did, didn't I?" he grinned, and tentatively lifted it again. The effort clearly drained him, but he was able to do it nonetheless, with far more success than he would have had even a day before.

"Oh, _George_!" Julia cried out happily. "This is exciting! Look at the way you're recovering! You'll be back on your feet in no time!"

"Well, I hardly think it will be _no_ time…" he began dubiously, and caught her giving him a teasing glare. "But I dare say I am most encouraged at the moment. I don't think I'd properly realized how fortunate one is to have control of one's own movements. It's most satisfying to be able to tell my arm to do something, and have it obey. I suppose I had always taken that quite for granted."

"We all do, George. There are so many things we take for granted and we don't realize how important they are to us until we are at great risk of losing them." The words hung in the air for a moment, and she swallowed. "Now how is your rash? Let me see."

George's skin was considerably less red, and places on his legs looked as if they were getting ready to peel after a bad sunburn. "I think it's receding! I dare say you truly are on the mend."

George looked back at her with one of his rare wide smiles. "Oh, I hope so! I have been feeling quite a lot more like myself, even if I may not look it." He lifted his hand to stroke his beard again, and considered for a moment. "Julia. I hate to ask, given how much you've already done for me, but would you mind giving me a shave? I don't at all enjoy feeling so itchy or unkempt, and I don't yet trust my own hands with sharp objects. I thought perhaps that since you are a surgeon…"

Julia smiled. This was not a request she had been expecting, but she could understand it. He did look rather… untidy. "I could certainly do that for you, George, but I'd like to wait until your rash has subsided some more. The inflamed skin is quite bumpy and I'd hate to damage it while it's healing."

"Well, all right," sighed George. "I suppose I can wait." He rubbed his face one more time, and saw her open her mouth to speak again. "Yes, I know! I heard it all when I had the measles. _Don't scratch!_ "

* * *

Julia checked on William, who was reclining in the darkened bedroom, sketching mechanical devices in a notebook.

"William? What are you doing? You should be resting." She sat down next to him and laid her head on his shoulder.

"Julia. I'm afraid I don't find lying here uselessly to be particularly restful. I _need_ to be working on something. I need to use my hands. You've known that as long as you've known me."

"That is true. But I fear that too much intellectual stimulation will interfere with your recovery. Honestly, William, trying to get you to rest is like trying to herd cats! Your brain needs time to heal."

William adopted a long-suffering look, and lifted an eyebrow at his wife. "My brain needs to work on things. I'm hardly content with enforced idleness."

Julia regarded him thoughtfully for a time, and gestured at his notebook. "What are you doing? How much thinking does it require?

He brightened, and flipped back a few pages to show her. "I'm designing exercise equipment to assist with George's recovery. Clearly he's going to need to do quite a bit of work to be fully back to himself, and I was thinking that various devices to assist him with rehabilitation focusing on specific muscle groups would be very useful." He gestured at the page. "Now this one lifts the rear wheel of a bicycle off the ground, so the rider can pedal without needing to balance on the road, or even leave the house. Excellent for strengthening the heart and boosting circulation." He turned the page and pointed at another design. "And this one consists of a set of pulleys and weights, with various handles that can be attached and detached, depending on which muscle group one wishes to exercise. The weight can be adjusted as he becomes stronger." William's enthusiasm was positively boyish.

"My goodness, William, Daisy would be thrilled to see this. Does working on the plans give you a headache at all?"

"No, it doesn't. Only trying to read does that. But I discovered something very strange: there was a journal article in French next to the bed, and I found that I can read it with no trouble. It's only English text that I can't decipher."

Julia blinked in surprise. "How very odd," she said. "And quite fascinating. I should very much like to study this phenomenon! Although I don't suppose this changes my treatment protocol to any great degree—I still recommend dim light, quiet, and minimal stimulation. But if you find that engineering apparatus after apparatus to assist George is _less_ stimulating than lying idle…"

"Idleness agitates me, Julia. I'd have thought you'd know that by now."

"Well, all right, I _suppose_ ," said Julia unhappily. "But at the _first_ sign of headache, you stop what you're doing, lie back down, and rest. I can sedate you if that's what it takes. Yes"—she lifted a hand—"I know that you hate it, but I think you would hate permanent alexia more."

William looked chagrined, and smiled ruefully. "Point taken," he said.

"So you'll ask me to medicate you if it's necessary?"

He nodded.

"Do you promise? Look at me, William, and promise me." Her gaze was intense.

"Yes, Julia, I promise.

"Very well, then. You have my blessing to invent wonderful things for George." She kissed him on the forehead. "I must go make a telephone call."

* * *

Julia took a moment to plan how she would tell Clarence about George's nascent recovery. She thought perhaps it would be impolite to gloat too overtly, but she was sorely tempted.

Clarence, as she could have predicted, was furious that Julia chose to treat George without consulting him first. Her tone was even and, George thought, somewhat terrifying.

"I _did_ consult you when I mentioned the possibility, and I decided that in my professional opinion it would have been irresponsible for me to follow your counsel. I diagnose and treat root causes of illness, not just symptoms, and since no other soul was engaged in any sort of effort to address the underlying issue, I felt I had no choice but to take matters into my own hands. Constable Crabtree's recovery since the injection of the antiserum has been nothing short of remarkable. The rash has faded, his temperature is normal, he is regaining strength, and he is in good spirits. What, pray tell, can you say about the condition of your five—I beg your pardon, _four_ —patients?"

George wondered whether Julia's eyes might somehow emit actual fire. She was silent for a few moments, and a pained expression crossed her face. "I'm truly sorry to hear that they're not improving. I hope they are not suffering. There is certainly no need for them to do so anymore, given the success of the antiserum."

George waited.

"Well, I would be most pleased to package the remaining antiserum as hygienically as possible and leave it in front of the house so that it can be picked up and brought to you at the hospital. I can vouch for its efficacy, and fortunately Constable Crabtree is here to do so as well."

She listened for a moment, and her expression hardened. "Oh. Well, that is certainly your own decision, to continue to extend a quarantine over a place where there is clearly no threat of further infection, effectively denying others a chance to recover quickly from that same malady." Her tone was icy.

A pause. George watched quite the series of emotions cross Julia's face, finally stopping on something almost wicked.

"Well, Clarence, I do notice that there has been no report in the _Toronto Gazette_ , the _Telegraph,_ or the _Daily Star_ of the illness or the quarantine. The press is so very influential, wouldn't you agree? I'm sure this silence on their part is doing a great deal to keep public fear of an epidemic to a minimum. It would certainly be regrettable for the good people of Toronto to learn of this illness, and to find out that the city's Medical Officer of Health had a tool available to cure four patients of a frightening, communicable disease, but had declined to use it. Goodness, who knows what kind of rumours would fly about the city and your office in such a case?"

Julia listened, and a smile started to spread across her face. By the time she began to speak again, George thought that she quite resembled the Cheshire Cat. "Why, Clarence, I'm most gratified to hear that you've changed your mind. I'm certain your patients will be most grateful for the more timely relief. I will have the remaining antiserum available for you within a quarter-hour, in packaging that has been thoroughly disinfected. You're welcome!" she said cheerfully, and rang off.

"Julia!" George said admiringly, with wide-eyed amusement. "I'm shocked! That was quite a reminder about why it is wise never to cross you."

Julia was beaming. "Clarence _loathes_ taking counsel from a woman. He _loathes_ it. But the injury to his reputation should the newspapers learn of his inaction? He would loathe that even more."

* * *

Ruth Higgins-Newsome telephoned at five-thirty to see whether she could drop off any more "delectable treats." Julia found it so difficult to stifle her giggles that she handed the receiver to George, who diplomatically thanked Ruth while letting her know that no more were necessary. He struggled a bit to hold the telephone, but brightened considerably when Ruth put Henry on the line. He did not want to admit how much he missed his occasionally quite irritating friend. It was just good to hear his voice.

Tom and John came by just after six o'clock, and dropped off a hamper of food. They paused for a moment to wave hello. Tom held up two fingers and mouthed, "Two more days." Julia nodded and smiled at him. _He looks sad,_ she thought. _I suppose I was hoping that he and Margaret could patch things up before we can escape this house. Alas._

Just before seven, as the sun was setting, Ruth and Henry came to drop off another package. They smiled and waved, but mercifully, did not shout this time. Julia opened the package with trepidation, but was pleased to find the elegant bedlinens that Ruth had purchased for Henry while he was in the hospital. The sheets were clean and pressed, and redolent of fresh air. _Lovely!_ she thought. _Sometimes Ruth knows just the thing._ She glanced over at the enormous pastry box and chuckled.

Julia managed to maneuver George into the armchair while she changed his sheets. He was holding his head up better, and they decided he could stay in the chair while he had his dinner. She laid a quilt on his lap, and placed a tray across the armrests to hold a plate of buttered bread, chicken salad, and chopped fruit, and a glass of milk. It took a long time, but George was thrilled to find himself able to eat nearly all of the meal unassisted. When he was finished, Julia cleared his dishes, handed him a book, prepared a plate for William, and took the tray to the bedroom. She sat with William as he ate, and then returned to the great room for George's last examination of the day.

To her great relief, his temperature was still solidly normal, and his rash was nearly gone. He was fatigued enough that he needed a bit of help with the evening's ablutions after Julia transferred him back to the bed, but after he was clean and finished with the bedpan, he asked for pyjamas rather than yet another hospital gown. Julia retrieved a pair of William's from the bedroom, the same ones George had worn the night he became ill. They were clean, thanks to William's ingenuity in creating a makeshift washing machine inside a large tub, complete with a crank-operated apparatus to agitate the clothing inside the it. The machine was quite effective, but Julia still thought she would be most grateful to be able to avail the household of the local laundry service again.

At eight o'clock, she bid a good night to her patient, wondering whether it might not be more accurate at this point to start considering him as more of a guest, and retired to the bedroom. She took a long, leisurely bath, donned her nightgown, and joined a drowsy William in the bed. He welcomed her into his arms, and she gratefully laid her head on his chest. She was asleep in moments.

* * *

[i] The Government of Canada offers records of daily weather for various locations starting in 1905. Yes, I looked it up.


	12. September 8, Day Nine

A bright sun was peeking around the edges of the blinds when Julia finally awakened, still within William's embrace. She lifted his hand and kissed it gently, and he drew her toward himself. "You're awake," he said contentedly.

"I am, and we are together. I can hardly believe it." She ran a finger along the stubble on his jaw. "How did you sleep? How is your head?"

"I'm glad to say I slept surprisingly well," he said. "Although perhaps it is not surprising that I sleep better when I share the bed with my beloved wife. Julia, I had really been missing you."

"Likewise, William. I missed your companionship here so very much. What about your head?" she persisted. "Any headache?"

"A very slight one. I stopped working on designs for George's exercise equipment yesterday when one came on, and I noticed it subsided fairly quickly."

"So you _did_ have a headache yesterday, and reducing stimulation brought relief without medicating you. It would seem all the rest I'm insisting on is having some benefit!"

William smiled sheepishly. "Sometimes I hate it when you're right."

She kissed him, tenderly at first, and then more insistently. He reciprocated with alacrity, pausing only for a moment to get up and close the bedroom door.

"Sleep is not the only thing one can do better when sharing a bed with one's husband," Julia purred as William climbed back under the covers.

* * *

George was in a good mood; he had slept well, and although his hands were still shaky and weak, he felt some strength returning. He was able to reach the book Julia had left for him—an adventure novel, _Daughters of Destiny_ , by one Schuyler Staunton, about Americans wanting to build a railroad through Baluchistan.[i] He was quite engrossed in the story when he heard a low moan and then some stifled laughter from the bedroom.

 _I… didn't hear that_ , he thought, and smiled. _Although it is nice to hear things getting back to normal._ He had long ago lost count of the number of times he had accidentally interrupted them over the years while they were sneaking a canoodle, often at work. He thought wistfully for a moment of Nina, and of how much he missed her.

* * *

Julia finally made her entrance into the great room a quarter of an hour later, dressed in a gauzy nightgown, her hair loose and flowing, a happy smile on her face. "Good morning, George! I trust you are feeling even better today?"

"As a matter of fact I am, Doctor Ogden, and it would seem that you are as well." He tried and failed to hide a smirk.

"George!" Julia scolded him, and blushed. "William did close the door!"

"Oh, never mind that, Julia." He smiled again. "How is he? I mean… his head. How is his head?" Now George was blushing.

Julia giggled. "He's doing better as well. He's been working on a special project to assist with your recovery. I've given him permission to come to the table for breakfast, but I'll need to darken the room first. He says the light isn't bothering him very much, but I don't want to overstimulate him."

"A project, hm? What could it be?" George was intrigued.

"Oh, I'm sure he'll tell you all about it over the meal. I was thinking you might want to sit at the table with us. I don't know that you're up to a dining chair yet, but we could move one of the armchairs over so you would at least have some support for your elbows. How does that sound?"

"Oh, Julia, that sounds marvellous. I should like that very much."

* * *

Julia examined George before she went to the kitchen to prepare some breakfast. She was planning to write about the illness and her treatment of it, and wanted to continue documenting George's progress. After she finished listening to his chest, he pulled the stethoscope out of her ears and told him, "Well, George, apart from the weakness, I must say your recovery so far is quite remarkable. No fever, and your heart rate, blood pressure, and respiration are all normal. And the rash is almost completely gone!"

"Now that is excellent news. That as well as a hearty, satisfying breakfast that isn't a gruel—well, so far today is the best day I've had in at least a week and a half!"

Julia laughed. "Well, William has his doubts about whether I'm able to prepare a hearty breakfast, but I shall certainly endeavour to do my best. I wouldn't want to ruin your splendid day!"

The meal consisted of shirred eggs, baked in ramekins with cream and shredded cheese, and served with strips of toast, as well as a bowl of chopped fruit cooked in syrup. To George, it was one of the best meals he'd ever eaten.

"William, I don't understand why you tease Julia so much about her cooking. This is _delicious_ ," he declared between mouthfuls.

William, seated at the table in his dressing gown and slippers, snickered. "I told her exactly what to do. This is a difficult meal to get wrong. Although I do find the toast a bit too dry…"

" _William!_ " Julia scolded him good-naturedly, and threw her napkin at him. "Now George, you're sure you're not just saying that because you're so tired of shredded meat and custard and soggy crackers and peptonised milk?"

"Honestly, Julia, I am enjoying this very much. It's more than worth the effort it's taking me to eat it." He took another bite before he'd even finished with the previous one.

"Well, we will work on that weakness today. William is building quite an array of equipment to help with your rehabilitation, and I'm sure he will be keen to show it off."

* * *

After breakfast, William collected the dishes while Julia and George drank tea and discussed their plans for the day.

"Well, Julia"—he wasn't sure if he would ever get used to the feel of her Christian name in his mouth—" I do recall your saying you would be willing to assist me with a shave." He rubbed his chin, which had gone from stubbly to fully bearded seemingly overnight. "I'm not at all comfortable feeling so terribly unkempt."

"But of course, George! I'd be happy to, and to give your hair a trim as well, if you'd like."

"Why yes, that would be lovely," he replied cheerfully, and stroked his chin again. "Had I known of your barbering skills?"

Julia smiled mischievously. "Of course, George—you may remember that I got to practice them on the late Roger Newsome?"

"Of course." He smiled, and shook his head. "You did indeed, and quite handsomely, as well. The _late_ Roger Newsome. That was about the only time I liked that man."

Julia nearly spat out her tea.

George snickered, and continued. "In any case, you've been cutting William's hair as well, have you not?"

"I have! I was quite pleased when I convinced him to let me."

"And his always looks quite tidy. I would be honoured if you would trim mine. I confess I am tired of being so hirsute."

* * *

William offered a razor and some shaving soap, and went to the kitchen to disinfect and sharpen the blade. While he did so, Julia used a pair of surgical scissors to trim George's hair. George was clearly fatigued by sitting upright for so long, and he often asked her to stop for a moment so that he could rest his head on the back of the armchair. Finally William ended up supporting his head while Julia finished the haircut and then the shave, William offering the occasional suggestion about approaches to various areas of George's face.

"Let me look at you," she said to George when she had finished, and regarded him appraisingly. "Yes. You're looking more like yourself again." She nodded in satisfaction.

William interjected. "He's still awfully pale, and noticeably thinner."

"Hush, William, I'm trying to encourage him! Look, the rash is just about gone, and he hardly looks like a—what was the word he used?"

"Sasquatch," sighed William.

"Yes, that's it! He hardly looks like a Sasquatch anymore!"

"I'm right here," said George plaintively.

Julia laughed. "I'm sorry, George. You do look rather thin, although I suspect you would look even more so had Miss Hart not fed you so well. Now, let's get you back to bed so you can have a nap, and then we'll get started with the rehabilitation protocol that my friend Daisy has prepared for you. And William, you're off to bed for a nap too." He started to protest, but she raised a hand to silence him. "You're still recovering. And you promised."

He pursed his lips and shook his head resignedly. "Very well. But you'll need my help with George first."

"I don't believe I will! I can push his chair back to the side of the bed, and help him get back in without ever having to lift his full weight."

"Now this I should like to see," said William, lifting an eyebrow.

"All right, suit yourself," said Julia. "But I really must insist that after George is returned to his bed, you return to yours. Now George, is there anything more you need at the table before you lie down again?"

* * *

Transferring George back to the hidden sofa was considerably easier this time, as Julia had predicted, and once she had tucked him in he was asleep almost instantly. Sitting up for nearly two hours had exhausted him, especially since it was so much effort for him even to hold up his own head. William returned to the darkened bedroom only reluctantly, after gathering up a collection of ropes and pulleys to assemble and test various configurations of exercise equipment for George. Julia made more tea, and after she took a cup to William she sat down at her own desk, keeping the slumbering George in sight. She pulled out a sheet of foolscap and a favourite pen, and began work on the first draft of an article she hoped to publish about the illness and her development of the antiserum.

* * *

Julia stood up and stretched, hearing several pops in her back and neck as she raised her arms over her head. She had lost track of time, and had been working on the article for several hours without a break. She crossed the room to George to check in on him, and was surprised to find him awake, quite focused on the corner of the room beneath the window. "George?"

"Ah, Julia!" George hadn't heard her approach, and he was startled.

"What are you looking at?"

"Well, funny you should ask. If you look closely at the wall there, you will see an orb weaver spider constructing his web. I've been admiring his quiet perseverance and hard work. I'm quite fond of spiders. There was one at the station house that I got on with very well. Doctor Grace would remember him – his name was Webster. He even managed to survive one of Doctor Grace's experiments in the morgue! But he wasn't so lucky where the Inspector and a rolled-up newspaper were concerned. I was quite saddened by his loss. I still think of him sometimes. I've been pondering a name for this lovely fellow right here in front of me."

Julia had sat down in the armchair while George was talking, and her expression was a mixture of astonishment and mirth. "Why, George, I had no idea you bore such enthusiasm for arachnids. I don't particularly mind them, but I don't usually let them remain in our house."

"Oh, but Julia, you should! They provide an excellent mechanism for controlling flying insects, and they can provide hours of fascination. Have you ever watched a spider spin his web from beginning to end?"

"Indeed I have, George, but it has been some time. I must have been a child; I remember trying to keep one safe from Ruby. When she was small, she needed to touch _everything_ , and sometimes she was less than gentle." She peered more closely at George's new friend. "Oh, my! Given the large size of this specimen, I believe this one is a female."

"A female, you say? Well then. I shall have to rethink my ideas for a name. I was considering 'Eric' or 'Samuel,' but perhaps 'Arachne' would be an obvious choice. Or is that _too_ obvious? What about 'Pamela' or 'Penelope'? Yes. I quite like 'Penelope.' Hello, spider! I hereby christen you Penelope."

"Penelope it is, then," agreed Julia, and smiled in spite of herself. "And I suppose I cannot evict anyone with such a lovely name from my home, now can I?" She shook her head in amusement and relief, infinitely glad to hear George back to his fanciful self—she had very much missed his eccentric musings. "Now how would you like some lunch?"

* * *

William came to the table for lunch again, and the three of them had a simple meal of baked potatoes topped with cheese, sautéed mushrooms, and onions, followed by some pastries. There were still so many pastries.

George was back in the armchair, and after they finished eating, William was ready to assemble and demonstrate the exercise equipment he had invented for him. George's neck muscles were painfully tight, and he still found it quite challenging to lift his head, but he was regaining enough strength in his arms that he could hold the handle that William gave him. The handle was attached to a rope that passed over a pulley, and by tugging on it, George could move a small amount of weight attached to the other end of the rope. As George grew stronger, William explained, they could add more weight and thus increase the resistance.

The contraption William had fashioned had a track for weights to move up and down in place, so they would not swing haphazardly and risk injuring someone. Julia observed William's demonstration intently, and suggested some movements for George that would strengthen his arms in a manner consistent with Daisy's protocol. William, meanwhile, made notes and then adjustments to the equipment. George was still too weak to do much more than pull the handle a few times with the lightest possible weight attached, but it was progress nonetheless. Once his arms had reached their limit, under Julia's careful supervision, William took the handle back and began reconfiguring the apparatus so it was at the proper height and angle for George to use it to strengthen his legs. George was impressed. He was clearly intrigued by his mentor's creation, and was eager to put it to its intended use as soon as he could. Julia, meanwhile, was most entertained to observe William's boyish enthusiasm at demonstrating his creation – his excitement was infectious (although she immediately regretted thinking of the word, drat her unerring instinct for puns), and she was suffused with warmth and affection toward both men. She patted George's shoulder, and departed for the kitchen before she got too mawkish. Everyone, she decided, could use some tea.

* * *

When she returned with the teapot, William and George were seated at the table deep in conversation, and did not notice her come in. She stood in the doorway for a time, listening in. After the intimacy of the past week and a half, she hardly thought they'd mind.

"…but quite frankly, William, I've found this entire experience to be quite unnerving. I was on patrol like any other day I've ever been on patrol for more than a decade, and the next thing I knew, all three of us were fighting for my life. I mean, all of us in the Constabulary know in our bones that the work is inherently risky, but I dare say no one ever wakes up one morning thinking _This day will be the end of me._ " He paused and thought for a moment. "Well, perhaps someone has. Perhaps a clairvoyant might even work for the Constabulary. Hm. Now that I think about it, clairvoyance would be an awfully useful trait for a constable, don't you think? If you knew where a murder would be committed, you could get there beforehand and keep it from happening." He stopped again to ponder the implications of his suggestion. "Although I suppose such an ability would also put other police officers out of work…"

"George." Somehow William infused the single syllable with annoyance, long-suffering, and great fondness.

"Very well, I suppose I do digress. In any case, I confess I'm finding it somewhat hard to fathom that having done my job is what is preventing both you and me from doing our jobs. Who knows how long it will be before either of us can return to work?"

Julia cleared her throat, and moved the rest of the way into the room, putting the teapot down on the table as both men turned toward her. "Well, George, I suspect that if your recovery continues at its current pace, you'll be back at your desk in a couple of weeks, and back on patrol within four to six more. As for you, William, quite honestly I don't know. The alexia may take some time to resolve. But in the meantime"—she gestured at the exercise apparatus—"you have certainly proven that other skills of yours are as sharp as ever. Even if you need a longer break from the Constabulary, you can clearly keep yourself occupied with other pursuits."

William nodded and gave a thin-lipped smile. "Julia. I didn't know you were there."

"Well, I was," she said, and handed him a cup of tea. George awkwardly swallowed a laugh.

"Hello, Julia," he greeted her. "I was just about to say that even if my physical state does not improve, I also have other options. If I'm not a constable, I could pursue my writing career in earnest, and some of my investments are doing quite well. Given that I will likely never advance past Constable Third Class, considering my history, such a life doesn't seem so bad. Still, though, I can't quite convince myself that my work with the Constabulary is done."

"I don't think it is, George," Julia reassured him, "and I don't think William's is either. I firmly believe that it won't be long until these ten days seem a distant memory."

George nodded thoughtfully. "Before you came in, William and I were discussing what will happen after tomorrow, when we are all free to come and go as we please. Well, the two of you will be, at least. I won't be able to without assistance. I was thinking perhaps I will need to spend some time in a sanatorium until I have my strength back, as I certainly can't look after myself until then."

Julia had an idea, and shot a meaningful look at William. He read her intent, and raised both eyebrows. She shrugged, and when he didn't shake his head, she spoke.

"George, how would you feel about continuing to stay with us during the rest of your convalescence? William can continue to work with you on your rehabilitation, we can both provide the care that you will still need for a time, and you can entertain William while he recovers too."

William nodded, unsurprised that his hunch about Julia's next step had been right. He was simultaneously amused, grateful, and chagrined. George was taken aback as he contemplated her suggestion. "Julia. My goodness. That is a most generous offer. I do suppose it's more hospitable and familiar here than at a sanatorium, but I would hate to impose any further than I already have…"

"Nonsense, George," huffed Julia. "I will have to return to work once the quarantine is lifted, but neither of you is fit to do so yet. But you are both quite well equipped to continue looking after each other."

They both looked at her quizzically. "How do you mean?" asked George, and glanced at the exercise apparatus. "William has certainly been of tremendous assistance to me already, but what can I do for him if I can't even stand?"

Julia stared at him, incredulous. "You really don't know?" George shook his head. "George! You can read to him, of course!"

George blinked, and then grinned. "Oh! Of course! I do quite enjoy reading aloud!"

William briefly squeezed his eyes shut in disbelief, then amused resignation. "I suppose there was something inevitable about it. I _shall_ need someone to read for me as I recover, and who better than the matchless George Crabtree. And George is in need of support himself." He winced a little. "All right, George. You are most welcome to continue your convalescence here. But…" His voice grew quieter, and his tone more earnest. "George. I may at times have to ask you to minimise the… somewhat dramatic nature of your reading style. There's only so much excitement I can take at the moment."

Julia burst out laughing, and squeezed George's arm affectionately. "Well. It's all set, then. It seems you're our lodger now." Mischief in her eyes, she continued, "Well, William, at least now he can earn his keep."

William gaped a little, and stifled a giggle. "I see your odd sense of humour has emerged intact from our ordeal, Julia…"

"Indeed it has," she replied, and smiled. _There were moments it was all I had_ , she thought briefly, and gave her husband a firm kiss on the lips.

* * *

John Brackenreid dropped off a basket at the front door at lunchtime. He was in civilian clothes— _of course,_ Julia thought, _it must be Saturday_ —and she thought he looked quite dapper as he tipped his hat to her and turned back down the front walk. _How he's grown_ , she thought with wonder. _He was such a beautiful little boy, and now here he is a grown man, working shoulder to shoulder with Crabtree. The Constabulary is such a terribly dangerous place_ — _how I hope John doesn't come to the harm so frequent there._

She reflected for a desolate moment on how many of the people close to her had been shot. Her own husband, more than once, with crossbow bolts and bullets. And poor George. Every time she had bathed him over the past nine days, she couldn't help but let her eyes linger on the small, round scar on his left side of his chest. She had bandaged bullet wounds on Tom, and on Llewellyn Watts, and she herself had only recently stopped being constantly aware of the tight web of scars from That Woman's gunshots to her own abdomen, and the surgeries she had needed to recover. How she loathed reminders of that nightmare, and the weeks she had spent in hospital, William fretting at her side. _Sometimes it feels like all we do is heal._

 _I need to get out of the house_ , she thought. _All this time cooped up in here is making me maudlin._

As Julia had asked, the contents were again quite simple: cured and sliced meats, tinned sardines, fresh bread, carrots, apples, a jar of pickled cucumbers, fresh cheese, butter, milk and eggs, and various dried fruits, as well as a cured ham and a jar of boiled beets. She sliced the bread and laid out the makings for sandwiches, and called William and George back to the table. William came from the bedroom, having napped since breakfast, and he and Julia moved George's chair back to the table so they could all partake of a meal together again. It wasn't beef bourguignon or asparagus salad—it would be quite some time before any of them would want to dine on such fare again anyway—but the midday repast was satisfying and companionable.

* * *

George spent the afternoon napping, while William tinkered in his workshop and Julia enjoyed a leisurely bubble bath. _George isn't the only one who gets to soak in this tub_ , she thought as she relaxed into the hot water and felt some of the knots in her back start to unkink. She stayed immersed until the water was cold, and finally climbed out, dried herself off, and donned a loose nightgown and a dressing gown over it. _If George and William can spend their day in pyjamas, so can I!_ She made herself some tea, sat down at her desk, and got back to work on her article.

The words did not come easily as she contemplated how to frame the data she had collected. The household took the _Gazette,_ the _Globe_ , and the _Daily Star_ , and neither she nor George had been able to find any mention of the illness. Furthermore, the Inspector told that there had been no report of it in the _Toronto Telegraph,_ despite repeated inquiries from Louise Cherry into the whereabouts of Detective Murdoch and Constable Crabtree. Julia wondered what had prevented Miss Cherry from showing up at the house. Perhaps Tom had been able to distract her with a red herring of a story somewhere else?

Julia, William, and George all took the newspapers' silence about the illness to mean that there was a concerted effort to suppress any reports of it. Over breakfast they had debated the merits of such an approach, with Julia suggesting that more than one level of government would be involved. William muttered sardonically that perhaps Terrence Meyers' hand was at work, but Julia argued that it very well could be. No elected official wished to risk public hysteria, she noted. And how had a ship with a man as obviously ill as Elias Price been allowed to dock in Toronto at all? Given the recent backlash against migrants, and the tensions between the United States and Canada, a report that Toronto Public Health had no procedures in place to prevent an epidemic brought from outside the Dominion of Canada might be politically disastrous.

All this left Julia puzzling about what she could say. She knew that documenting her efforts to produce an antiserum could very well save more lives and open avenues into more ground-breaking research. But how could she make the report on her work palatable to the skittish politicians?

After more than an hour of starts and stops she gave up in frustration, and decided (somewhat masochistically, she realised later) to place a call to Clarence to inquire after his patients. He grudgingly told her that their conditions had improved dramatically since the administration of Julia's antiserum, but all of them were still bedridden and likely to be so for quite some time. Plans were underway to transfer all four to the Hillcrest Hospital, a convalescent home at Davenport and Bathurst where Julia had had occasion to send some of her own surgical patients who needed longer-term care. Clarence anticipated that all of them, especially the gentleman who had lost a hand, would need to remain there for several months. _Won't he be surprised to see George Crabtree up and about before the end of September_ , she thought acerbically. _That is, if he even knows George's name. He's never told me the names of any of the people he's been shut up with for a week and a half_ — _I sometimes wonder whether he even sees his patients as people anymore..._

Julia nearly choked on her tea when Clarence announced his intention to write a journal article about the illness and the treatment. She had all sorts of questions, but, knowing she had already jeopardised her professional relationship with the man more than enough, gave voice to none of them: _How will you get it past the politicians? How do you plan to lay hands on my data? Will you try to take credit for my work? (Of course you will.)_

Instead, suddenly, she heard herself offering to collaborate with him. _Julia! What are you doing!_ an inner voice scolded. _William is right when he calls you impulsive!_ Whatever part of her that had made her do it, though, started to come up with justifications for the seemingly rash decision: A _t least it would be a way to ensure you receive credit for your own work. And Clarence's involvement would increase the likelihood of publication…_

The internal debate was over almost as soon as it had begun: Clarence declined her offer immediately, and got quite huffy that she would be so foolish as to even suggest such a thing. He did not quite use words like "presumptuous" and "impudent," but Julia could hear them in his tone of voice. _Very well, then,_ she thought, _I see no need to share my notes about George or how I developed the treatment you plan to claim as your own. I shall write my own article, and I shall get it published, too, thank you very much._ She said none of this—she was quite through with arguing with him—and rang off politely before she returned to her desk to write in earnest.

The words came far more easily after she decided she was just going to write the paper as she wished, and the devil with being diplomatic. As she wrote, she mused, _I wonder if George would like to review this when I'm done…_

* * *

Dinner was ham, baked potatoes, and beets, and a warm apple compote for dessert. Julia noted how delightfully decadent it was for all three of them to come to the table in pyjamas. William had wanted to change into a shirt and trousers, but Julia refused to hear of it: she declared that they were on what George called a "homecation" now, and she had resolved that they were going to enjoy it.

 _Julia's definition of "enjoy" and mine would seem to differ rather dramatically at times,_ thought William, who was deeply uncomfortable for at least the first half of the meal. George and Julia, though, were both completely at ease, and eventually William began to let himself relax, at least a little. By the time they were finished with dessert, he was starting to appreciate the "decadence" in spite of himself. It _was_ nice to be able to eat a hearty meal without feeling the stricture of one's trousers. The company was entertaining: George was back to his whimsical self, if a bit more weary than usual, and the past week had led William to regard him with new appreciation for his quick mind and unique, fanciful wit. And Julia… a weight had clearly come off her shoulders, and well, she looked gorgeous, practically sparkling with relief that two of the favourite men in her life were still with her.

 _All right, Julia, you've won me over yet again. Perhaps we should dine in pyjamas more often_ , William finally thought _._

At about nine o'clock, William took his leave, and Julia helped George back to bed. Neither wanted to end the warm conversation begun at dinner, and Julia decided she would subtly raise the topic of what George had said in his delirium about his time in the Don Jail.

"I must say it's wonderful to see you back to your inimitable self, George. It's much more companionable than your delirious one."

His eyes widened. "I hope I didn't embarrass myself… Was I quite talkative?"

"You had a great deal to say, George. Fortunately almost all of it was quite innocent," she smiled.

"'Almost'?" he inquired, concerned and slightly horrified.

Julia laughed, and patted his arm. "Don't worry, George. I never heard a word about Nina."

George closed his eyes and exhaled, and turned a little pink. "So?" he asked. "What did I speak about?"

George's tone was conversational: an outsider would have seen an amiable man joshing with a friend. But Julia had known him long enough to hear a tinge of nervousness, even fear. She saw an opportunity to get him to reflect on the possible meanings of what he'd said—a chance to help his psyche heal as well.

"Well, you may remember my telling you about your strong belief that you were back in Newfoundland, with your aunts in the rectory. You were most concerned that your Aunt Ivy would send you to bed without supper if you failed to sweep out the fireplaces. I nearly had to hold you down! And then later you were convinced that you were going to miss a final examination at school."

She took a breath.

"And I must say I was very concerned to hear you speaking of lying with two broken ribs in the infirmary of the Don Jail."

George went from pink to bright red.

"It was a very difficult time," she acknowledged. "You don't like to think about it." He nodded mutely. The two were silent for a while.

"I'm not going to push you to talk about your time there, or in the jail itself, George," Julia finally said softly. "But I do encourage you to do so. I dare say I've wondered whether the entire experience of incarceration left you with deeper scars than you've let on. If you ever feel the need to talk about what happened, I want you to know that I am always more than willing to lend a sympathetic ear."

It was some time before he spoke. "Thank you, Julia. It was… difficult, yes." He swallowed, and tipped his head back for a moment. "I shall think seriously about taking you up on that offer, but not right now. I know I've been sleeping a lot, but I'm still frightfully tired."

Julia smiled, and squeezed his good shoulder before she stood up. "Slumber is the best thing for you right now, George. I dare say I'm quite thrilled by your recovery so far, and more time in the arms of Morpheus will do you a world of good. Let's get your teeth brushed and get you to sleep."

* * *

[i] Schuyler Staunton was a pseudonym used by L. Frank Baum, author of _The Wizard of Oz._


	13. Morning, September 9, Day Ten

William was the first in the house to awaken. He was unclothed, his limbs entangled with Julia's, and he tenderly kissed her awake as well. She rolled over sleepily, and kissed him back. "We would seem to be quite nude, William—whatever would you know about that?" she teased him.

"I… I'm not sure I should incriminate myself without my solicitor present," he returned, and she giggled.

"I _am_ your solicitor, William Murdoch, or had you forgotten?" He was suddenly struck by the improbable (and strangely compelling, although he would never admit it) memory of a moustachioed Julia in glasses and a short blond wig, again dressed in men's clothes, coming to him like an angel of mercy as he languished in the cells of Station House 4.

"I suppose you were when I was falsely accused of murder; is it not possible that I am falsely accused once again?" Amusement and arousal played across his handsome face.

"I'm afraid to say the evidence seems quite incontrovertible here, Detective. But I'm sure I can think of a suitable punishment," she whispered, and her head disappeared beneath the covers. William moaned as quietly as he could as she slowly planted a row of kisses down his chest.

"Julia," he said, his voice husky.

"Yes, William?" she asked between kisses.

"I hate to say it, but I think we should stop."

Julia broke off her trail of kisses and looked at him inquisitively. "What's the matter?" He was squinting, the same way he had a week before, and suddenly she knew. "You're getting a headache."

"I hate to say so, but yes. Perhaps I am not yet recuperated enough to engage in such, ah, activities."

She pushed herself back up onto her pillow, and regarded him with concern. "What about yesterday? You seemed all right then."

"Well." He cleared his throat. "We both had somewhat urgent _needs_. And sometimes I am quite powerless to resist your attentions."

Her expression darkened. "William. Did yesterday morning's activities give you a headache? Be honest."

He looked away awkwardly.

"I will interpret that as a 'yes,'" she said, annoyed. "Now tell me: how long did it last?"

He pressed his lips together, and answered only reluctantly. "Until just after lunchtime."

"Then we must control ourselves until you are further recovered." She glowered at him. "I should have realized. And _you_ should have told me, William."

"But you were so eager." His voice dropped. "And so was I. So _am_ I."

"William!" She was livid. "Well, now we know that we can't indulge our more carnal impulses for the moment. There is too much at stake. You should have told me," she said again, and he shrugged. She leaned in toward him, he hoped for a kiss, but instead she pressed her forehead against his for a few seconds, her eyes blazing, then retrieved her nightgown and climbed out of the bed. "A few moments' satisfaction is not worth your career," she snapped at him as she pulled the gown back on. "Honestly, William Murdoch, sometimes you are _most_ infuriating!" She snatched a dressing gown from the closet and nearly stomped out of the room.

* * *

George had awakened on his own, and was quite pleased that he had managed to roll himself over to reach the novel he was reading. He was so engrossed in the story that it took him a moment to notice Julia had entered the room, a scowl on her face as she tied the sash of the dressing gown with sharp, angry motions.

"Good… morning, Julia?" he said tentatively. "Is everything all right?"

She sat down heavily in the armchair next to him, and continued to glower. "It would seem that William has seen fit to keep some important information from me about his recovery. But I suppose that's between him and me. How are _you_ keeping?"

He nodded thoughtfully. "I'm quite well, considering. I've still some soreness in my arm, and I could do well with being able to get out of the bed or the chair, but I'm… still here." His mouth worked itself into a crooked smile.

Julia glanced around the room, and spoke before she thought, in a tone more unkind than she intended. "You certainly are, George."

George's face clouded, and he looked contrite. "I'm sorry, Doc—Julia. I am indeed still _here_ , as it were. Perhaps I _should_ arrange for my transfer to Hillcrest."

Julia was taken aback, and felt genuine remorse for her ill-advised quip. "Oh, George. I shouldn't have said that. I'm the one who should be sorry. I'm angry with William, not you. I do apologise. You are welcome here as long as you like."

"Well, thank you, Julia, but it is difficult not to feel that I'm imposing. You and the detective have been most kind to look after me. I'm truly sorry to have caused such disruption and upheaval for you. Your entire lives have come to a standstill for the past ten days because of me. I am quite sorry for that."

Julia took a breath. "George. Please stop apologising. We're glad to look after you. I've been thankful more than once in the past ten days that you're not on Clarence's quarantine ward. If you had been, who knows what condition you and the others would be in by now? I wouldn't have been able to develop and test the antiserum to treat you, and the four patients on the quarantine ward would still be suffering." Her eyes blazed as her anger redirected itself toward Clarence Morris. "I mean, really, if he had been open to my suggestion when I made it, there might still be five of them!"

George's mouth tightened, and Julia continued. "And furthermore. How many times have you supported the two of us—often quite literally—when we were injured or unwell? I certainly haven't forgotten how you shepherded William back from Haileybury when he was shot, George. You had a badly injured man on your hands and you _travelled_ _with him_. You nursed him through delirium and you got him home. Come now, George, I won't hear any more apologies." _Unless they're from William,_ she thought peevishly.

He finally grinned back at her, sheepish, and said, "All right, then. But should either of you ever need to be nursed back to health from a virulent infectious disease, and find yourselves unable to reach the hospital, you are welcome to stay in my modest abode for as long as necessary."

Julia laughed in spite of herself. "Thank you very kindly, George—but I certainly hope we will never have to take you up on that."

* * *

William made his way into the great room not long after Julia. Dressed in a collarless shirt and trousers, he glanced furtively at Julia now and then, but she refused to meet his eye as she bustled in the kitchen to prepare them all some breakfast. He sat down next to the hidden sofa, and asked its occupant quietly, "What have you, George?"

"Well, I am as well as can be expected, but it seems you might be in a bit of hot water, if I'm not mistaken about the cause of the good doctor's current mood," George murmured in reply.

William grimaced. "It seems I made an error in judgement yesterday morning, although she hardly seemed to think so at the time."

George looked at him curiously, unsure of how—or even whether—to ask the obvious question. William shook his head dolefully. "I didn't tell her that a, ah, particular activity caused me a headache that lasted some hours, and now she is furious. I find myself wondering whether she places part of the blame on herself, but I confess I likely should have ceased such activities as soon as I felt any discomfort. But where Julia is concerned, I… just… I couldn't help myself." William realised he was sharing more than he'd planned, and he blushed brightly. Constable Crabtree didn't need to know the intimate details of his marriage.

George sensed William's embarrassment, and sought to assuage it. "Sir. William. I've lost count of how many times I've seen you two quarrel. Whatever is done is done, and there's no sense dwelling on it. Give her some time and she'll cool off. And today is a day for celebration, not a row. The quarantine is lifted today!"

"Does that even matter, George?" William asked gloomily. "You and I will both remain confined here, to this house, whether a quarantine is in effect or not."

"I should hardly think so! I can sit up more easily now, and a wheeled chair could accommodate me. In fact, this house is quite well suited to such a conveyance, given its lack of stairs. And it's surely possible for us to go outside. You can wear a hat and shaded spectacles, and if noise is still painful to you, you might block your ears somehow so that we can make forays into the out-of-doors."

William sat back, his palms on his knees, to contemplate George's suggestion. It _would_ be such a relief to walk around the neighbourhood, or perhaps even to go broader afield to visit the station house or the museum. "You may be right, George. But in the meantime I must patch things up with Julia, or this could be an excruciatingly long day."

It was at that point that Julia swept in and shot a glare at William, then unceremoniously deposited a full toast rack and a platter of scrambled eggs on the table. "There are clean plates and forks in the dishwashing cupboard," she told him. "The butter and Margaret's jams and chutneys are in the icebox. Would you please get George to the table?" William nodded and stood up, and she turned to the man on the sofa. Her demeanour changed from cold to solicitous. "George, do you need anything? What can I get you?"

The atmosphere at the breakfast table remained frosty throughout the meal. George tried to start conversation about inconsequential topics now and then, but his efforts fell flat, and eventually they all finished eating in silence. William looked morose and Julia irate, and both of them were wearing on George's patience.

"Please forgive me if I'm speaking out of turn," George began hesitantly, "but I feel as if the two of you have something to discuss. Perhaps some unfinished business that's causing some discord."

 _"'Unfinished business.'_ That's one way to put it," muttered William.

George tried and failed to hide a smirk as he realized his unfortunate wordplay. Julia frowned. "George, I _told_ you. This is between me and William."

"Well it involves me now too," he ventured, "given that you are barely speaking to each other, and I am quite dependent on both of you. Might I be so forward as to ask that you sort out whatever this dispute is? I should hate for our last day of confinement to be full of strife."

William and Julia were both a little shocked by George's directness. Julia blinked and shook her head slightly. "My goodness, George, that _is_ rather forward of you." She was unused to such a direct approach to confrontation, and hardly knew how to respond. William, too, was disarmed. Neither could recall a time when anyone had so plainly pointed out how those in the couple's orbit were affected by their squabbles. Perhaps George's brush with death had emboldened him.

William stammered briefly. "I believe I agree with George," he said cautiously. "The air needs to be cleared, and the sooner the better. But, uh, Julia, perhaps you and I should adjourn to another room for this discussion."

Julia's ire, reduced to a simmer during the meal, flared brightly. "No, William, if you insist on discussing this right now, and since it involves George as he so correctly pointed out, we're going to talk about it right here."

William turned crimson, and George suddenly had doubts about the wisdom of his own boldness. Much as he wanted to, he was not going to be able to give them any privacy. _This was not how this was supposed to go…_

Julia continued. "William, you _have_ to be more careful about exerting yourself! And you must _tell me_ the moment you experience any symptoms!"

"Julia." He was nearly overwhelmed with feelings he could not name. He exhaled sharply, shot George an apologetic look, and spoke in a low tone that bordered on the dangerous. "If I recall, you were the one who initiated certain strenuous activities, both yesterday and today."

 _Oh dear,_ thought George. Suddenly he wanted more than anything to disappear. _If i could_ _return to the bed, I might reach_ _the button that pulls the hidden sofa back into the wall,_ he realised glumly. _I might hide until they're done. Penelope could join me, and spin her web in there._ He looked over at the other end of the room to see if she was visible, but she was just out of range. _Perhaps she is sleeping_. _Do spiders sleep?_

Julia was both furious and mortified. "You should have told me, William! _You should have told me!"_

"I'd have thought you would _know_ , Julia! You're the doctor!" William was shouting now. "You're the one who keeps fussing at me about avoiding overstimulation, and yet there you were _stimulating me!_ What was I to do?"

George wondered whether the hidden sofa could detach from the wall entirely and make its way out the back door to the far end of the garden. _Or would that even be far enough? Perhaps someone could attach a horse to the front so I could use the sofa as a conveyance back to my own home. Or maybe New York. Or Paris. I could visit Nina, and she wouldn't even have to find us a bed._

Julia thought very briefly about picking up a glass from the table and smashing it against the wall. Hot tears welled up and she heard herself shouting right back at her husband: "God _damn_ it, William. _God damn it._ " She pushed her chair back with such force that it crashed onto the floor, and she did not stop to right it before she fled out the back door to the garden. She knew William was right, and she was ashamed.

* * *

George and William sat regarding each other mutely for a few moments: neither had any idea what to do. Eventually William stood and righted the chair, but then he was once again at a loss.

George finally broke the awkward silence. "Will she be all right?"

"Perhaps the past ten days have taken more of a toll on our Doctor Ogden than we realized," William said quietly.

George nodded. "I think perhaps you're right. Are you going to go after her?"

"Not immediately. She needs some time."

"I… I'm so sorry," said George. "I shouldn't have spoken. I don't know what got into me. I surely didn't intend anything like that to happen. I was just hoping you could both clear the air."

William pressed his lips together in a fine line. "She'll be all right, George. She is a woman who feels most deeply, and there are times when her passions are in need of release. If she cannot vent them in one way, they will find their way out in another."

"Have you seen this sort of thing a lot, then?" George caught himself. "No, I'm sorry again. That's none of my concern. I don't mean to pry."

"It's all right, George. I suppose your recent role within this household makes it difficult to know what's private anymore. Julia has a temper, yes, especially when she is proven not to be completely in the right. Fortunately she is usually able to manage it appropriately in public, but… not always at home."

George nodded. He knew that the normally staid detective had a temper of his own—he had seen it himself on occasion — and he had now and then observed a glimmer of the same from the doctor, but never before to such a degree.

A new worry crossed his mind. "Will you be all right to go outside? It didn't seem to go very well last time. I would offer to go, but, well…" He gestured toward his weakened legs.

"I suppose I'll have to be, although I fear that doing so will anger Julia further. But I can wear the shaded spectacles, and it's cloudy this morning, so perhaps the sunlight won't feel like so much of an assault."

"I hope not. What's she doing out there, anyway?"

William peered out the back door. "It appears she is pulling weeds."

"In her dressing gown?"

William gave a sad smile. "Indeed."

"Well, I suppose that's what she's wearing," mused George, "given that she couldn't have changed on her way out the door…"

"No," said William tightly, as he cleared the dishes from the table. "It seems I shall have to go out, but let's get you moving for your morning exercise first. I… I believe I should give Julia some more time to cool down."

* * *

George was able to manage a bit more weight on the pulleys than he had the day before, and with some help from William he was able to get into a seated position and hold it for nearly three minutes without support. William was pleased to have a bit of positive news to share with Julia, as he was quite dreading the imminent talk with her. After George was reinstalled in the bed, propped up with so many pillows he was seated nearly upright, William changed the gauze and the dressing on his arm. The surgical site was healing well—more good news.

William finally decided it was time, and with George's quiet encouragement, he donned his hat and the shaded spectacles, tucked some cotton wool into his ears, and steeled himself before he ventured outside once again. The humid air filled his lungs the moment he stepped out the door, and he took a moment to adjust and collect himself.

His heart was pounding as he approached his wife, who was seated on the ground yanking at a large patch of peppermint that was threatening to take over the garden. It was warming up to be a very hot day, but the cicadas were not yet at full volume.

William lowered himself to the ground and sat next to Julia, leaving enough space between them that she could decide if she wanted his touch. For a while, she ignored him, continuing to tug at the matted roots of the peppermint plant. A cricket chirped somewhere to their right. The air smelled of mint and dirt and the lilacs nearby. William wrapped his arms around his knees and waited.

"William. You shouldn't be out here." Her voice was hoarse. She didn't look at him.

"Then take me inside," he replied.

Julia nearly snorted, and gave a harsh laugh. William lifted an eyebrow.

"That's the problem, isn't it. I _took you inside._ And I did it because I was hungry to, and I desperately wanted to, and I set back your recovery. I was selfish. Unforgivably selfish." She pulled hard on the mint, and a large clump came up in her hand so abruptly she nearly tipped over. William reached out instinctively to catch her, and she stiffened at his touch.

"Julia. Look at me." He gently lifted her chin with an index finger, and found himself looking into reddened eyes above tear-stained cheeks. "Julia. It's all right. I'm all right."

"Are you, now? Can you read?" she asked bitterly.

"I… I don't know. But I do know this: my actions are my responsibility alone. If there has been any more damage done since the initial injury, it is my fault. I am the one who has resisted rest and dim light, and if there are any setbacks to my recovery, they are my doing. No one else's." He searched her face to see if she would accept his words.

She turned away. "I shouldn't have tried to arouse you."

"Julia, you should know by now that where my arousal is concerned, you hardly have to try," he said softly.

She smiled slightly despite herself. "Be that as it may, I should have been more cautious. I let my own need for satisfaction from my husband undermine the needs of my patient."

"Julia Ogden, you are human. You have been under incalculable stress, confined to your home with two infirm and needy men for ten days now, and holding yourself responsible for the lives of five more souls at Toronto General that you've never even met. You have been nurse, and surgeon, and researcher, and negotiator, and maid, and cook. I can hardly blame you for needing to be a lover, for desiring an outlet in the form of relations with me."

Julia dropped the clump of mint that she had been tearing apart, and closed her eyes. She laboured to speak, and her voice, muffled by the cotton wool in William's ears, was no louder than a whisper. William had to strain to hear her. "The first time we had relations after your fall, before that terrible conversation with Margaret, I had convinced myself that you were all right. I decided, against my better judgement, that since you were recovering well we could go back to our normal exertions without risk. And yesterday I thought…" she trailed off. "Yesterday I just didn't think. I'm so sorry, William." She dissolved into tears.

William reached out and drew her toward himself. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he gathered her in his arms and held her close. They sat wordlessly on the ground for a long time, Julia's ragged gasps finally calming to match the rhythm of William's breath.

"Julia, I love you. I will never stop loving you. The world will not end if I can't read again. Our lives will be different, but they will not be over."

She pressed her face into his neck, and grasped his hand. "'Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; Nought may endure but Mutability,'" she quoted softly.

William thought for a moment. "Shelley."

"None other."

"Well, Julia, no matter what changes, we will still have each other. There is nothing more important to me than that."

She squeezed his hand. "I love you too, my dearest William. I love you, and I need you, and I desire you. But I suppose I must keep my desire in check for now."

William nodded once in sad agreement. They held each other for a few more minutes before Julia broke the silence again. "We should go back into the house. I'm sure George is beside himself by now."

"George. Of course." He gave a tight smile and helped Julia to her feet.

Brushing mint leaves and dirt off herself, she remarked, "I've quite ruined this dressing gown, haven't I?"

"We'll take it to the laundry and see what they can do," he replied, as the couple started back toward the house.

A smile spread across Julia's face as she realized what he was saying. "We can _take it to the laundry,_ William! We don't have to wash it here!"

He smiled back, more broadly this time. "Yes. Yes, we can. George is right: today is a day to celebrate."

* * *

"Good heavens, this house smells just like the hospital!" Julia exclaimed as she came in through the back door. "It positively reeks of disinfectant."

George looked up at the door with more than a little apprehension until he realized that if Julia was fretting about the scent of the house, it was likely she was no longer fretting about William. Indeed, he entered just behind her, one hand on her waist, the other holding his spectacles, hat, and the cotton wool.

Julia's eyes were puffy and she looked terribly weary, but no longer irate. William wore an expression that would have been indecipherable to anyone outside this very room, anyone but the two people who knew him best in the world. George regarded his mentor carefully, and saw sadness, guilt, relief, and deep, abiding love.

"Hello," George greeted them cautiously. "Are you both quite all right?"

"The air is clear, George," said William, and deposited the hat _et al_. on the table before he pulled Julia close and kissed her on the head. She burrowed her face into his chest..

George held William's gaze and nodded. "I'm glad. I… I'm sorry I forced the matter."

"Think nothing of it, George. The bull needed to be taken by the horns. No need to discuss it further."

"Very well then. You have heard the last of it from me."

Julia lifted her head to regard William sceptically. "Oh, so I'm a bull now, am I?"

William recoiled, afraid he had trod on some metaphorical ordnance. "Julia, that's not what I meant."

Julia softened, and gave him a mischievous look before she sank back into his embrace. "I know, William. I know." William relaxed, and kissed her again.

"Thank you, George. You did what needed to be done," her muffled voice came from William's chest. "You're a good man."

"He is indeed," said William. "Now Julia, why don't you have your bath, and I'll do some tidying, and start packing everything up to return to the morgue and the hospital and the Brackenreids." He looked over at the stack of empty crates and baskets next to the wall.

"I think I'd prefer if you waited for me to do most of it," she said. "I know where I've put everything, and I know what's ours and what's not."

"Very well then," said William. "I shall at least make sure Mrs. Brackenreid's dishes are clean and neatly packed."

"Don't let's get them mixed up with Miss Hart's, though!" She surveyed the room on her way out of it. "This house will look positively barren when we return everything to whence it came. But let's not disassemble my laboratory just yet—I still have some work to do."

* * *

A clean, refreshed Julia, dressed once again in a loose blouse and William's trousers, came back into the great room to get down to the business of transforming the household from a makeshift hospital ward back into a home. There were of course some fixtures that would remain as long as George did: the hidden sofa was not going back into the wall anytime soon, and Julia had arranged for the delivery of a commode chair, but there was no longer any need to keep the crates of dirty linens, the surgical supplies, or the bedpans in the house. Julia set about sorting the dishes, refilling two crates each for Mrs. Brackenreid and Miss Hart, while William went for his morning nap. The row with Julia had exhausted him.

George, meanwhile, continued reading his book and conversing now and then with his hostess, or perhaps he should consider her his landlady now, as the detective had done for Mrs. Kitchen. No, _landlady_ was not enough. She was simply Julia, and she and her husband were essentially his family.

* * *

Once the stack of full crates by the door had grown as high as it could, Julia took some time to get back to her article. George was curious about it, and Julia explained her work with excitement, pleased for a sounding board, and also hoping to give George some context so he could understand what had gone on while he was so unwell.

George was particularly interested in the transmission of the illness. She told him about her theory about how infection necessitated the exchange of blood, and how Doctor Morris had validated said theory only to claim it as his own. George was appropriately indignant on her behalf. She explained that the nurse who had been exposed to the pathogen at the hospital recuperated quickly because she received immediate care, and how the seven people that Elias Price had attacked were all accounted for and were either dead or quarantined, thus preventing the illness from spreading any further.

"So let me see if I understand," said George. "Your article's focus is on the development of the antiserum that you used to inject me?"

"Yes, that's right."

"And your theory is that such an antiserum can be developed from the blood of anyone who has survived the illness."

"Yes."

"So it would seem to me, then, that you could provide more robust evidence for your hypothesis by analysing the blood of all the remaining patients, including myself."

"Yes, George, that's right!" Julia's eyes lit up.

"Well I suppose I ought to offer you a blood sample, then," George said reluctantly. "Even if I have had quite enough needles for this lifetime."

"Why, _thank you_ , George! I would be most grateful. There would seem to be quite some political pressure to suppress any news of your illness, but I am resolute. Sharing my findings about the antiserum may save lives."

"Then how could I say no, after you saved mine?"

* * *

Julia telephoned Clarence to make and explain her request. She smiled serenely as she listened to his response, thanked him politely, and rang off. "Success, then?" queried George.

"He told me that frankly, he was shocked that I am continuing to pursue the matter, he flatly refuses to press the other patients for blood samples for me, and he will not even reveal their identities to me so that I can make my own case to them."

"You don't seem upset," said George, surprised.

"What Doctor Clarence Morris fails to remember," she said with a tone bordering on smugness, "is that I live with perhaps the best detective in North America, and for now, his highly skilled and loyal constable as well. It shouldn't be at all difficult to track down four people who were near the docks and then disappeared into Toronto General for ten days only to reappear at the Hillcrest. We will find them quite easily, I suspect, and we shall persuade them as well. And if Clarence wishes not to be involved at all, he need have none of the credit when my work is finally published. Which it most certainly will be."


	14. Early evening, September 9

William was up and puttering about the kitchen, scrubbing some potatoes for dinner, when it dawned on him that it was exactly ten days to the hour from when George became ill. _The quarantine is officially over!_ He was elated. He was about to call out the good news to Julia and George when there was a knock on the door. It hit him: _My God, we can open the door and_ _let people in_ _._ It took him a moment to catch his breath before he took off his apron and started toward the front hall. Julia, though, had beaten him there, and he could hear a veritable cacophony of cheerful voices greeting her.

"William! _William_!" George hissed, and William went to him instead.

"Yes, George?"

"Would you be so kind as to move the commode chair to somewhere more private? When it's just the three of us, I don't mind having it right here, but I shouldn't feel comfortable with its proximity in the presence of guests."

William began to tell George that he saw no reason to move the chair—the bodily functions it accommodated were universal, after all—but caught himself. George was allowed his privacy. "Of course, George." He picked it up and carried it to the bedroom.

He re-emerged to find the great room full of people: the inspector and John Brackenreid, Detective Watts, and Ruth and Henry Higgins-Newsome surrounded Julia, and all seemed to be talking at once. He was so overwhelmed by the din that he nearly turned around to head straight back the way he came, but Julia caught his slightly panicked eye, and raised her hands to quiet everyone.

"I beg your pardon, but I must ask that you all keep your voices low. William is recuperating from a concussion, and loud noise is quite painful to him." William sighed in gratitude as the decibel level dropped. His eyes shone as he took a few moments to survey the faces of his friends, one by one.

The inspector regarded him with such deep, unspoken empathy that William found it almost impossible to bear: Thomas Brackenreid knew in his bones what it was to come back from life-altering injury. "Come here, me ol' mucker," he told William, and drew him into an embrace that William was glad to reciprocate.

"Thank you, sir," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

"No 'sirs' in this house, remember, William?" George piped up from the bed.

"Crabtree!" Thomas barked. "Don't encourage Higgins!" Julia's eyes widened, and she raised a finger to her lips. "Oh, right," he said more quietly. "Sorry, Murdoch."

"It's all right, ah, Inspector."

Thomas cracked a smile, and gripped William's arm. "Well, all right, I suppose. For tonight it's Tom. William."

"Thank you… Tom." William smiled back and then turned to young John, who beamed and reached out to shake his hand as Thomas made his way to George's bedside.

"It's good to see you. All three of you," said John.

"Likewise, John," William said, and pulled the surprised young man into a hug. "Thank you both for looking after us."

"We were happy to. You were all greatly missed at the station."

"Well I suppose we would be. We do keep the place running, after all," quipped George.

"Bugalugs," the inspector greeted him.

"Uh… Tom," George replied, and reached up to shake his hand. Thomas shook George's hand with both of his own.

"It's good to see you, Crabtree," he said softly.

"Likewise. You and everyone are quite the sight for sore eyes. I must say we've had quite a time here."

"You look terrible. Quite… scrawny," Watts cut in without preamble, hunching over George to inspect him.

"Well I _did_ almost die," George shot back with good humour.

"He did!" agreed Julia. "But we're so very glad he didn't. I assure you he looks _far_ better now than he did a week ago."

Watts landed in the armchair next to George and cleared his throat. "If that's the case, then you must have looked truly dreadful indeed."

Julia's face clouded. "He did. He was so dreadfully ill." Her voice dropped. "I confess there were times over the past ten days when we were quite frightened."

"But he's still here!" exclaimed Henry, who had arrived at the other side of George's sickbed and stood expectantly, waiting for his friend to push himself up for an embrace. Julia shushed him immediately and he flinched, contrite.

"Hello, Higgins!" said George. "I… I can't hug you, I'm afraid. Not unless you come down here."

"George is still very weak," William explained quietly. "The illness has quite debilitated him. It could be some time before he's back on his feet."

Henry leaned over to Crabtree and practically lifted him off the bed in a bear hug. He grunted in appreciation. "It's nice to see you too, Higgins."

Ruth fanned herself behind them. "Hello, George. I suppose I should be glad you are still with us. Henry has been _quite_ melancholic for the past ten days."

"Hello, Ruth. Thank you for your warm wishes. I can't tell you what they mean to me," George replied, failing to hide a smirk. Julia managed to suppress a snicker.

"Now, now, Ruth! Be kind. George has been through quite an ordeal," Julia chided the younger woman mildly.

Ruth harrumphed a little. "Very well," she said. "George. Though I am not fond of you, I do not wish for you to die. Despite the fate you brought upon my dear, dear, dear, dear brother." She paused. "Although Henry did ask me not to bring him up today. Oh, dear. I'm sorry, Henny-Penny! I didn't mean to."

"'Henny-Penny'? Still on that one, are we?" inquired George a touch sardonically.

Henry picked up Ruth's hands and gave her an imploring look. "Oh, my sweet Roo-Poo, remember? We are _happy_ that George is still with us."

"I suppose so. George, congratulations. You didn't die. Oh! I hope everyone enjoyed the pastries?"

* * *

Finally, when greetings had been exchanged with everyone and a good number of the remaining pastries had been brought out of the fruit cellar and laid out on platters, William and Julia turned to the gifts their guests had brought. _Guests!_ thought Julia. _In our house!_ She was nearly giddy.

The first gift was a wheeled chair made of wicker that Henry had managed to find in a storage room at the back of the station house. "Higgins?" said George. "This chair looks awfully familiar. This wouldn't be the same chair that we used for the corpse of the man you've apparently asked your wife not to name in front of me, now would it?"

"The very one, George." Henry grinned.

George tilted his head philosophically. "I… wish I knew what to make of that," said George. He grinned back, and looked around at his friends. "Whatever's in that hamper smells quite lovely."

"Indeed it does," said William, and picked it up onto the table to begin unpacking it.

As he did so, Julia realised with disappointment: "I have to pack up my laboratory, don't I."

William looked up at her and said, "Regretfully, I believe you do, if we are to seat all these ladies and gentlemen at our table."

Julia sighed. "Very well, if I must, I must. Would any of you be so kind as to fetch one of the empty crates by the wall and… no, wait. The sheets this glassware was wrapped in are already packed and destined for the laundry. I suppose we'll just have to move everything. William, I don't suppose there's any room for all this in the workshop?"

William and all five of their guests made quick work of transferring the entire setup to the second bedroom, once William had cleared a table to accommodate it. Julia had to disassemble various parts of it for transport, and it would take some time to put back together, but she was pleased that nothing was broken. She had been hoping to establish her own corner of the workshop, as she had seen how happy William was to settle into his. As he had said once, sharing workspace meant they could always benefit from each other's counsel.

* * *

Watts and John set the table for eight as William transferred George into the wheeled chair—the movement appeared practised and smooth already, Thomas noticed—and Julia finished unpacking the hamper and laying out a sumptuous dinner. There was a rich, hearty cassoulet, still warm from the oven; three loaves of fresh French bread; cabbage salad; green beans sautéed with onions, tomatoes, garlic, and herbs; and peaches and cream for dessert.

"My goodness!" Julia enthused quietly, mindful of William. "This all looks beautiful! To whom do we owe our thanks?"

John spoke hesitantly. "Well, I've been observing Mother quite often in the kitchen…"

" _You_ , John? You cooked all this?" Julia was amazed.

"Well, with some help from Father." He looked over at the inspector with appreciation.

"Tom!" Julia was disbelieving, and everyone else looked shocked.

Thomas smiled, just a little. "You must never tell Margaret," he said conspiratorially. "She doesn't let anyone touch her recipes. She'd have my head."

"The two of you, talented chefs right here under our noses!" said George. "And here we all were thinking Mrs. Brackenreid was the only gourmet in your household."

"Well as far as anyone else is concerned, she _is_ ," said Thomas firmly. "If you all know what's good for you."

"Is that so, then," said Julia, amused.

"Yes," said Thomas firmly. "Now let's eat."

* * *

The meal was hearty and delicious, the cassoulet most filling ("put some meat back on those bones, Crabtree!" the inspector had remarked as he served him a generous helping), and the company most enjoyable. After supper, Henry presented George with another crate.

"Now Higgins, you know I can't open that right now," said George jovially. Julia had allowed him half a glass of wine with the meal and it had gone straight to his head.

"Of course not, George, I don't expect you to. Here, I'll get it for you."

Henry unpacked the crate one item at a time, and handed each to George, or put it on the table near him. George was immeasurably glad to be reunited with some of his favourite things, including his typewriter and his book in progress, some of his clothes, his favourite pen and notebook, and his newsboy cap. "We thought you might like some familiar things, since you're still laid up here," said Thomas.

"Indeed I would!" George was clearly moved. "This is terribly thoughtful of you. I… I don't know what to say. Thank you, uh, Tom."

"It was Watts' idea," said Thomas. "He and I went to your boarding house and sweet-talked our way past your landlady into your room."

George grinned as he imagined that encounter. "I dare say the thought of anyone sweet-talking the cantankerous Miss Pratt, especially the two of you, seems quite preposterous. But I'm sure she was quite thrilled for the kerfuffle. It seems she's quite a fan of the excitement inherent in the constabulary—"

"And Higgins here took up a collection from the lads at the station house." Henry obligingly handed George a neatly tied box from the Timothy Eaton department store.

"Open it, George!" Henry beamed.

"Now this I can manage," said George, and he pulled the end of the ribbon so he could lift the lid. The box contained a fresh ream of typewriting paper—Berkshire linen wove, George noted with pleasure—as well as three typewriter ribbons, a bottle of Stephen's Blue Black Writing Ink, and a brand new fountain pen in an elegant case. "Henry Birks and Sons!" George was elated. "You shouldn't have. This is a fine pen! Thank you, Higgins! Please thank the lads for me!" His eyes grew misty. "This is so very kind, of all of you."

Thomas lifted a beefy hand to clap George on the shoulder, but William caught his wrist before he could make contact. "Other shoulder, Tom. That one's still healing."

"Of course." He squeezed George's right arm instead, and looked him in the eye and nodded. "We're glad you're still with us, me ol' mucker."

"So am I, sir—Tom. So am I."

* * *

By nine-thirty, both George and William were fading fast, and John, Watts, and the Higgins-Newsomes graciously took their leave, Julia sending them all with the last of the pastries. John collected the first of the crates of the Brackenreids' dishes as well. Julia quietly asked Thomas to stay behind. There was much she wished to discuss with him, not least of all the situation with Margaret, and she was also quite keen to join him in indulging in the scotch he'd tucked into the side of the hamper that had borne everyone's dinner.

The inspector nursed a dram in the armchair by the fireplace while Julia pushed George's chair to the ensuite washroom, past an already sleeping William, and helped him with the evening's ablutions. They were back quite soon, and Julia transferred a nearly limp George back to the hidden sofa, where he fell asleep in moments. She had kept the light level subdued all evening, largely for William's sake. Now that George was down for the night, she dimmed the lights almost to complete darkness, and lit a number of candles that she had arranged in the fireplace, as it was still too warm for a real fire. Finally, she settled down in the chair next to her friend.

"Tom," she began.

"Doctor Ogden." His tone was affectionate. "You're in trousers again. Starting to be a familiar sight."

"I am," she agreed, and smiled. "I've hardly worn a skirt this whole time. It's been glorious." A cloud passed over her face. "About the only thing that was."

"As bad as that, then?"

"Oh, Tom. It was awful. I… I finally snapped this morning."

"All got to be a bit much, didn't it," he said sympathetically.

Julia took a belt of scotch. "My judgement was getting rather questionable, and when I realised it I came quite undone." She felt the warmth of the alcohol spreading through her, and relaxed a little. "William was marvellous."

He nodded in approval. "Are you feeling better?"

She was thoughtful. "Well… yes. Yes, I suppose I am. And your kindness throughout this nightmare will not be forgotten."

"I've no doubt you'd do the same, Doctor."

"Well, yes, of course, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate what you've done for us." She finished the contents of her glass, and reached for the bottle. "Another?"

"Don't mind if I do." He drained his tumbler and held it out; she refilled his and her own. They sat for a time in silence, watching the candlelight flicker and dance.

"That Miss Hart of yours. She's rather a strange duck, isn't she," Tom suddenly remarked.

Julia blinked in surprise. "Why, yes, I suppose she is. Quite 'keen to impress,' as she herself put it."

"She is indeed." Tom was poker-faced, waiting to see if Julia would defend her.

"Most ambitious and efficient." She swirled the whisky around in her glass. "But there's something I can't quite put my finger on. I haven't grown _fond_ of her the way I did Rebecca, or Emily. I'm happy to support her for the principle of the thing, but, well… I don't _like_ her."

Tom raised both eyebrows. "Beat about the bush, why don't you?" he teased.

"I suppose that is awfully blunt, isn't it?" Julia giggled. "The scotch must have loosened my tongue."

"She had quite the row with Margaret, let me tell you. At least according to Margaret."

"Oh, dear," sighed Julia. "I saw that, but I didn't hear. But it appeared, at least to me, that Margaret was the instigator."

Tom sighed, and threw back the rest of his drink. The crystal glass sparkled in the candlelight as he put it down. "Wouldn't surprise me in the least. And I suppose she thinks I started all of this."

"How's that?"

"Well, when Miss Hart telephoned, I told Margaret she should trust her, because you sent her."

" _I_ sent her?" said Julia, perplexed. "I did no such thing. I told Miss Hart that Margaret was helping with food, but I never suggested that she contact her. That was entirely Miss Hart's own idea."

"Margaret was most put out. She was right chuffed to be in charge of feeding you lot, and she pitched a fit when Miss Hart insisted on feeding George."

"Well, what she provided for William and me was truly astonishing. Finer than much of the fare we've eaten in the best restaurants. I can't fathom how much effort she put into it. Now that I think about it, perhaps she felt that she was in competition with Miss Hart...?"

Tom leaned forward for a moment and thought. "Oy. Maybe she did. She threw a right proper wobbly when she ran into the young lady right outside here. Said she was insulted by the 'patronising' explanations of diet for fever patients."

"It looked like quite the row. Was that what prompted her to leave for her sister's?"

"Indeed it was." They both sat back in their chairs and sighed. Julia poured herself and Tom another dram. She sat staring at the lambent candles for some time, so long that Tom finally asked, "Doctor? You all right?"

"I'm fine, Tom. I'm just thinking. What would Doctor Freud think of all this? Did Margaret row with Miss Hart because she's angry with you?"

"Pardon?" Tom was confused. The scotch was starting to blur the edges of the room.

"Doctor Freud calls it his _theory of transference_. Transference happens when someone directs the anger they feel at one person toward someone else entirely." She tilted her glass, and looked through the amber liquid at the flames.

Tom squinted at her. "And why would someone do that?"

"Tom," she said suddenly.

'Yes, Doctor Ogden."

"John mentioned that his half-sister is coloured, is she not?"

"She is indeed, and quite beautiful, if I do say so. Sharp as a tack, hardworking… really, just a lovely young woman. I'm proud of her. But…" he trailed off forlornly. Julia waited, listening. "But I can't say any of that anywhere near Margaret."

"What's her name, Tom?"

"What? Who?"

"Your daughter. What's her name?"

"Ah! Nomi." His face lit up. "Her name is Nomi Johnston. Her mother is Sarah Johnston—now there's a woman—and I'd never have left if I'd known she was up the duff."

"Does Margaret know of Nomi's complexion?"

Tom considered for a moment. "I suppose she does. John did mention it to you…"

"So Margaret feels threatened by your attachment to a coloured woman, the mother of your illegitimate daughter, and now she sees you championing another coloured woman. Perhaps Margaret looks at Miss Hart, and sees Sarah and Nomi instead."

"Oh," said Tom, his eyes wide. " _Oh._ Bloody hell _._ " He shifted in his chair, taking in Julia's words.

"I… have some reservations about parts of Doctor Freud's work, and I confess I've gotten a bit behind in following it since I decided to become a surgeon, but I find his theories regarding the unconscious to be quite compelling."

"Doctor Ogden. When you left for Austria to become an alienist—"

"Psychiatrist," she corrected him, almost by reflex.

"—very well, psychiatrist. I thought it was all just so much mumbo-jumbo. But maybe there's something to it."

"It's kind of you to acknowledge that, Tom," she said dryly.

He snorted, and refilled their glasses once more.

* * *

Thomas Brackenreid said his good night in the wee hours of the morning, after the bottle of scotch was gone. They had raised their glasses to the end of the quarantine, and to Salvador D'Souza, and to Crabtree's recovery, and to their hopes for Murdoch's speedy one. (Thomas, shaken by the news of Murdoch's affliction, agreed to be discreet until Murdoch was ready to disclose his status himself.) Tom raised a generous glass to Julia herself. Julia nearly shed a tear more than once to be back in the inspector's company.

After she bid him a final good night with a warm and heartfelt embrace, she closed the door and turned to survey the dimly lit house. George was snoring quietly. She was surprised that she and Tom had not awakened him, but, then, the day's excitement had quite exhausted him, especially given his enervated state. The table and the kitchen were tidy—Watts had insisted on cleaning up, and had recruited Henry and Ruth to help—and the candles in the fireplace had burned almost completely away. Julia's head was buzzing with scotch and the afterglow of warm companionship. She decided it would be wise to drink a considerable amount of water before she went to bed, and headed to the kitchen to do so.

Eventually she pulled a dining chair over to George's bedside, and sat for a time to watch his slumber. She took great comfort in watching his chest rise and fall, listening to the rhythm of his breath. _Not too fast, not too slow. Perfect_. The room spun around her for a bit, reminding her that she really should herself be asleep. No reason now for her not to be: George was safe and on his way to being well.

"You are most beloved, George Crabtree," she whispered, and leaned over and gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead. He stirred, but only briefly. Julia rose, put the chair back under the table, blew out the last of the candles, and went to join her cherished William in their bed.


	15. Fall, 1906

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading. This story grew a life of its own—most of the time it didn't feel like I was writing so much as channeling something from who knows where. It just showed up, and demanded to be told. So here it is. Comments are so very welcome, no matter when you find this. Stay tuned for the epilogue.

Julia was back at work at the hospital, and William and George had established the daily routine they would follow for some weeks. William would get up with Julia, and start George with his morning work on the exercise apparatus, then adjourn to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for all of them. After everyone was fed and Julia off to work, William and George established themselves in the workshop until midday, George still availing himself of the wheeled chair. William tinkered on various projects while George read aloud—first the day's newspapers, then whatever else they could agree on. Most mornings, the debate was spirited. William pressed for monographs and articles from medical journals, while George argued for supernatural adventure stories. For the first few days, they were finally able to settle on general interest publications such as _Saturday Night_ and _The Business Magazine_ _[i]_. But as time went by, William convinced George that the two of them should be reviewing the medical literature in support of Julia's efforts to publish her article, and George found himself narrating the contents of articles from such journals as _The Lancet,_ the _British Medical Journal,_ and the _Boston Medical and Surgical Journal_ more and more often. He had never considered himself clever enough to hold much more than a layman's understanding of medicine, but as he read the journals aloud he realised he had learned far more by working with Doctor Ogden and Doctor Grace over the years than he had thought. He would be able to offer meaningful contributions to discussions of Julia's research.

Now and then, William would sit next to George and watch as he traced his finger over each word. William could speak each letter on the page aloud, but he was still quite unable to resolve them into meaning. George was immeasurably patient with him in spite of his obvious frustration. Julia had reassured them both that William could eventually retrain himself to read, although likely not at the speed he'd been accustomed to before: she had read an article describing a similar case, and the person who had experienced the alexia had been able to regain near-complete literacy over the course of some months through focused practice. She asked George to keep careful records of his work with William, so that perhaps she could one day contribute to the literature on this topic as well.

When they were not reading or exercising George, they would go to the kitchen and cook. William would wheel him in, and then lift him up and strap him into the frame he had built to hold George in a standing position while they worked. George read the recipes, and William coached him through what Daisy Maitland had described as "occupation work," rebuilding the fine motor skills so crucial to George's vocation. George was a good cook, and William was becoming one; Julia was always grateful to come home to a fine meal for supper.

* * *

**September 15, 1906**

Sometime after lunch, there was a knock on the door. Julia was at home, and she peered through the window to see a dark-skinned man with kind eyes and a full beard on her front porch, accompanied by a taller man, lighter-skinned, with a pile of dark curly hair. Both were dressed in clean, pressed work clothes. She answered the door, and the curly-haired man hesitated, then spoke.

"Doctor Ogden?"

"Yes?" she replied politely.

"I beg your pardon for the intrusion. I hope this isn't a bad time. I'm Joaquim Brandão, and this is Mr. Salvador D'Souza." The smaller man beamed at her and nodded.

Julia was thrilled, greeting the two men with obvious delight. "Mr. D'Souza! How wonderful to meet you!" She shook his hand vigorously, then Mr. Brandão's, and welcomed them both into the house. "George! William! There's a Mr. Brandão here with Mr. D'Souza!"

Mr. D'Souza was even warmer and friendlier than Detective Watts had reported. He and George hit it off immediately, with Mr. D'Souza embracing him seemingly after every third sentence. Mr. Brandão translated as necessary, but George and Mr. D'Souza ("Salvador! Salvador!" he exclaimed when George addressed him more formally) were able to communicate surprisingly well otherwise, through gesture, facial expression, and Mr. D'Souza's very rudimentary English. It seemed Mr. Brandão had been teaching him well.

"What does he understand about what happened?" Julia asked Mr. Brandão. "For that matter, how much do _you_ understand? It's always difficult to convey information through so many intermediaries, especially when there's a language barrier!"

Brandão, himself a soft-spoken, gentle man, replied. "I must say I'm still somewhat confused. Apparently Salvador's blood contains something that saved Constable Crabtree here? I couldn't begin to explain how, though. Salvador was just excited to be able to help someone. He is very glad to be in North America."

"I believe I can help with that, Mr. Brandão," said William. "If you wouldn't mind coming to our workshop in the next room, we have a blackboard we often use to illustrate more complex processes and solve especially challenging puzzles."

The group moved to the workshop, Julia pushing George's chair, and William drew a diagram illustrating the process by which she had refined the serum. Julia described what she had done in the best layman's language she could summon, and Mr. Brandão translated for Mr. D'Souza.

All at once, Mr. D'Souza's entire face lit up in comprehension. He spoke rapidly and excitedly to Mr. Brandão, repeating " _bhaavu, bhaavu!_ " and pointing at George.

Mr. Brandão shrugged perplexedly for a moment, then realised: " _Português_ , Salvador. No Konkani."

Mr. D'Souza smiled and shook his head in brief embarrassment. He spoke again, more slowly this time, in a different language, concluding with " _meu_ _irmão_ " and pointing again at George.

Mr. Brandão grinned. "He says his blood is running through George, so they are brothers now."

Wonder spread across George's face. " _Meu irmão_? Does that mean 'my brother'?" Brandão nodded. " _Meu irmão,_ Salvador," said George happily, and embraced his new friend once again.

Mr. Brandão and Mr. D'Souza stayed for at least another hour—Julia had plenty of questions about the course of Mr. D'Souza's illness and recovery, and he offered a further blood sample for her research. Julia gratefully accepted, and while she was collecting it, George, William, and Mr. Brandão returned to the great room.

"Salvador is quite keen to meet the other patients," Mr. Brandão was saying when Julia and Mr. D'Souza came in.

"And we are most eager to find them as well," said Julia. "Their identities have been concealed to prevent any sort of mass hysteria about the illness, but I should very much like samples of their blood as well, to make my research more robust. And perhaps we can also offer counsel about hastening their recovery."

"Indeed," said William, and waited a few moments for Mr. Brandão to translate. "Constable Crabtree and I intend to make some discreet inquiries, and it should not be difficult to track them down. We will certainly let you know when we do."

"We'd be most grateful, Detective. I'm afraid we must be going, my new friends," said Mr. Brandão, "but you can reach me at my rooming house at 115 Trinity Street. Salvador here is rejoining his crew on the coal ship, but he will be in Toronto regularly, and he and I will keep in contact."

"Very well, then," said William, "and I hope we will have good news for him the next time he is back."

"You seem to have made great friends with Mr. D'Souza, Mr. Brandão," remarked Julia.

"Yes, I have. I consider myself quite fortunate to have made his acquaintance—he is a most interesting man. I'm fascinated by his stories of his life and travels. He's seen a great deal."

"Well, I hope we may hear more!" said Julia warmly. "Please do come back anytime. It's been such a pleasure to meet you both."

"Salvador?" said George, and Mr. D'Souza turned to him. " _Você salvou minha vida_ , Salvador." D'Souza broke into a wide grin and shook George's hand, hard.

Julia and William looked at him inquisitively. "What did you say, George?"

"Mr. Brandão taught me how to say 'You saved my life.'" George smiled shyly before he and Salvador D'Souza locked eyes and nodded at each other. Their gaze spoke volumes; nothing more needed to be said. Mr. D'Souza embraced him one last time, and then he and Mr. Brandão were gone.

* * *

**September 28, 1906**

Constable Crabtree slowly made his way through the front door of the station house, leaning on two canes. Detective Murdoch was right behind him, wearing his shaded spectacles, one hand holding the door for him and the other out for support if he needed it. It was the first time either of them had been in their respective uniforms (well, if Murdoch's suit and tie and homburg constituted a uniform) for nearly a month.

Constable Higgins was the first to notice them, and he jumped to his feet. "Look, lads, they're back!"

The station house erupted into cheers and applause. Both Crabtree and Murdoch paused in their cautious journey into the building to let the warmth of the welcome sweep over them like a wave. The inspector, hearing the ruckus, emerged from his office. A wide grin spread across his face as he took in the scene. "Oy! You should've told us you were coming! Welcome back!"

Crabtree and Murdoch waited for the noise to die down—William doing his best not to grimace at the din—before either of them tried to speak. Both men looked genuinely moved.

"Thank you, sir, and thank you, everyone," Crabtree finally said. "It's good to be back in the station house, but I'm afraid we're not yet _back_ back. We're just here for the afternoon to catch up a bit and say hello."

"Well it's good to see you both, me ol' muckers," boomed the inspector. "How are you keeping?"

"Very well, sir, very well," declared Crabtree amiably. "The detective and Doctor Ogden have been taking exceptionally good care of me."

"George has been working very hard on his convalescence." Murdoch looked away. "May I say that we're grateful for your warm welcome."

All the constables in the bullpen applauded again, and the two men smiled and nodded in thanks. Crabtree felt his heart swell at the greeting.

"Sir! Detective Murdoch!" Henry called out. "May I ask about the shaded spectacles?"

"I sustained an injury to my head, remember, Henry? I'm not seeing well again yet, and it's hard for me to tolerate bright light." William, George, and the inspector had decided that it was best to obfuscate the real reason for the detective's extended absence from the station house—they both felt that reports of dimmed vision would be less likely to stir up a fuss than an admission that the great Detective Murdoch could not read. Inspector Brackenreid had managed to keep Louise Cherry occupied by sending her on a wild goose chase to Erie, but there was only so long she could be kept at bay.

"A head injury?" inquired Constable McNabb. "How?"

"Never you mind," Brackenreid said brusquely. "Detective Murdoch is making a fine recovery himself—aren't you, Murdoch—and they'll both be right as rain in a trice."

"Thank you, sir," said Murdoch. "I must say it's good to be back in the station house. Perhaps one of you could fill the Constable and me in on what's been happening here for the past four weeks? We've read various accounts in the newspapers, but we'd like the whole story."

"Right, then," said Brackenreid. "Come along into my office and I'll tell you what's what."

Murdoch and Crabtree travelled slowly into Brackenreid's office, Higgins following eagerly at Crabtree's heels. "Oy! Higgins!" said the inspector. "Did I invite you along, sunshine?"

"Nnno, sir, but I thought I could offer the constable's-eye view of recent events." He lowered his voice and glanced at George. "Plus I'd like to see my friend."

Brackenreid's voice dropped as well. "Well, all right, Higgins. But behave yourself."

The inspector discussed cases with the detective and the constable for over an hour, Higgins offering the occasional colour commentary, and Murdoch and Crabtree asking questions, making suggestions, and even solving one case.

"You see, sir, this place has fallen to rack and ruin without us!" Crabtree joked. Brackenreid gave him a stern look, then smiled. "Ah, actually, sir, we came in to the station house today on a bit of a case of our own. Doctor Ogden has asked us to track down the four good people who survived this dreadful illness just as I did. The gentleman who donated the blood that Doctor Ogden used for her curative antiserum is quite eager to meet them. We believe they're at the Hillcrest Hospital, but unfortunately Doctor Morris, the Medical Officer of Health—"

"I know who he is, Crabtree," Brackenreid interrupted.

"—very well, then, Doctor Morris has refused to identify them. So we have a bit of legwork to do to track them down."

"Legwork?" the inspector asked sceptically, glancing down at George's canes.

"Now sir. There's no need to poke fun at my infirmity. I assure you, the detective and I are quite capable of tracking them down; we will just need considerably more time than usual."

"So!" Brackenreid declared. "I suppose this makes three speeds for you, Murdoch. 'Slow,' 'dead slow,' and 'glacial' now, is it?"

Murdoch looked rueful. "I suppose so, sir. But that's why we're not back at work yet."

"I know, Bugalugs. I'm joshing with you. Like I've been telling you, take all the time you need. I needed months after the O'Sheas had their way with me. Now how can I help?"

* * *

**October 19, 1906**

"I don't know how I'll possibly ever be able to thank you for everything, both of you," George said, his voice husky. He was dressed in the suit he had been wearing the night he arrived, and standing on his own by the front door, almost ready to reach for his hat. He and William had been to his room earlier in the day to drop off his belongings and the exercise equipment that he would continue to use at least for the next few weeks.

"George." Julia squeezed his hands, and drew him into an embrace. "I dare say we've become quite accustomed to your presence here. It won't be the same without you."

"Well I should say it won't! Who's going to torment the detective with dramatic readings of penny dreadfuls now?"

William laughed in spite of himself. "Now, George, that is a feature of your prolonged company that I cannot say I will miss. But Julia is right: we will miss you."

George's expression turned earnest. "You're sure you're not going to go daft with boredom if I'm not here to read to you?"

"You and I will both be back at the station house on Monday, George. And Julia is here to help me until then, and there are fewer and fewer words that give me trouble now."

"I suppose so. But you'll let me know if you'd like me to read you anything."

"That is the plan for Monday, George," William said wryly, and George smiled.

"I'm glad you're able to read again, sir."

"Not well yet, George. Still just simple things. But Julia tells me it will continue to improve."

George nodded. "Very well, then, I suppose I'm running out of excuses," he said, and picked up his hat.

Julia reached out and hugged him again, and gave him a kiss on his cheek. "You're sure we can't see you home?"

"No need at all, Julia. I arrived here under my own steam, and I have firmly intended for the past seven weeks to leave the same way."

"Goodbye, George," said William, and reached out to shake his hand. George gave him a chastising look and pulled him into an embrace. "Of course, my friend," William chuckled, and hugged him back. "Get home safely, Constable."

"Oh, I will, sir, I will."

The moment was bittersweet. George made his way out toward the street, moving as easily as if he had never been ill. It was as Julia had predicted: the quarantine itself and his time as a lodger in the Murdoch-Ogden household were already starting to disappear into the hazy glow of memory.

Crabtree turned the corner toward his own rooming house just as the streetlights came on. He had never thought of Miss Pratt's house as particularly beautiful, but this evening the sight of it moved him deeply. He went inside, opened his door with the key, put his hat down on the table, took off his jacket and hung it up in his own wardrobe. He sat down on his bed for a few minutes to survey the room and sort through the day's post. Miss Pratt had kept his quarters dusted and tidy for him. For all her gruffness, he suspected she was fond of him: on the week's rent receipt, she had quietly credited him for the board he had not used while he was away. George nodded approvingly, struck not for the first time by how much he had to be grateful for. Then he stood up once again, walked briskly to his desk, and sat down at his typewriter to write.

* * *

[i] Now _Maclean's_ magazine.


	16. Epilogue, October 7, 1907

"Look, William!" cried Julia as she rushed into the house bearing a stack of mail. "It's here!"

"Julia! You're home!" William was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Julia swept in and greeted him with a kiss. "What have you?" he asked, looking at the thick envelope plastered with stamps that she was waving in front of him.

"The September edition of the _Bristol Medico-Chirugical Journal_!"

William's eyes lit up. "Your article?"

" _Yes_ , William! _Our_ article! They published it! Look!" She turned excitedly to the table of contents. "Here it is! 'Treatment by Antiserum of a Heretofore Unknown Infectious Disease.' By Julia Ogden, M.D. Bishop's."

"Your full name!" William exclaimed.

"Yes, the first time I haven't had to hide my gender behind an initial! The Bristol journal is quite progressive that way. I wanted to include you and George as co-authors but the editors wouldn't hear of it."

"Co-authors? Whatever for? You did all the research."

"But I simply couldn't have written it without you! The work you both did tracking down the other patients, the suggestions you and George offered after reading so many journal articles, the help George provided with the writing—it's as much your article as it is mine."

"Well… I suppose one might consider that to be true… but I hardly think the editors of a medical journal would be amenable to giving authorship credit to someone with no medical qualifications whatsoever," William said thoughtfully.

"They ought to, though," said Julia, "and I certainly did try to convince them."

"And I appreciate your effort. Considering the battles you fought to get this published in the first place, though, I'm just happy to see it with your name in print." He looked at the table of contents again, and gave her a brilliant smile before he drew her in for a kiss. "I'm proud of you, Julia Ogden, M.D. Bishop's."

She kissed him back, and ran a hand through his hair affectionately. "Thank you, William." Her expression turned to a smirk. "I dare say Clarence is going to be furious. I had all the data he wanted, and now it's written up and published."

"And what if he is angry? Any danger to public health from this illness is long past, and you have made a significant contribution to the literature." William flipped to the page with the article, and started to skim when the phrase "Crabtree's Disease" caught his eye. He lowered the journal, stared at his wife, and grinned.

"Just a moment, now. You _did_ get George's name into the journal. Julia! Does he know?"

"Of course! I certainly wasn't going to identify him without asking."

"But you didn't tell me?"

"I wanted it to be a surprise. Surprise!"

William could sustain his faux indignation for only a second or two before he burst out laughing. "Well, congratulations, my beloved Julia. We should let George know the journal is here. Perhaps we should invite him for dinner?"


End file.
